Alan Glynn - The Dark Fields aka Limitless

To my left was an intense guy with a salt-and-pepper beard wearing a carefully crumpled linen jacket, probably an art critic, and to my right was a Bernice-bobs-her-hair type of woman with bony bits sticking out of her every time she moved. Directly opposite me was a heavy Latino guy in a suit who was talking non-stop. He spoke in English, but it was norteamericano this and norteamericano that, and in a fairly disparaging tone. I realized after a few moments that the man I was looking at was Rodolfo Alvarez, the celebrated Mexican painter who’d recently moved to Manhattan and undertaken to recreate, from notebooks, the destroyed Diego Rivera mural originally destined for the lobby of the RCA Building in 1933.

Man at the Crossroads Looking with Hope and High Vision to the Choosing of a Better Future .

The dark-haired and very beautiful woman in a black dress, sitting to his left, was the sultry Donatella, his wife.

I’d read a profile of them in Vanity Fair .

How the fuck had I ended up with these people?

‘That’s ironic,’ the salt-and-pepper guy was saying to someone, ‘the choosing of a better future.’

‘What’s so ironic about that?’ I heard myself saying, and then sighing impatiently. ‘If you don’t choose your future, who the hell’s going to do it for you?’

‘Well,’ said Donatella Alvarez, smiling across the table – and smiling directly at me - ‘that is the North American way, isn’t it, Mr Cole?’

‘I beg your pardon?’ I said, a little taken aback.

‘Time,’ she said calmly. ‘For you it is in a straight line. You look back at the past, and can disregard it if you so wish. You look towards the future… and, if you so wish, can choose it to be a better future. You can choose to become perfect…’

She was still smiling, and all I could say was, ‘So?’

‘For us, in Mexico,’ she said very deliberately, as though explaining something to a small child, ‘the past and the present and the future… they co-exist .’

I kept staring at her, but in the next moment she seemed to be in the middle of a sentence to someone else.

From this point on things got more and more fragmented, disjointed – jagged. Most of it I can’t remember at all – apart from a few strong sense impressions, the weird colour and texture of mussels in white wine, for instance… swirls of dense cigar smoke, thick, glistening daubs of colour. I seem to recall seeing hundreds of tubes and brushes laid out in lines on a wooden floor, and dozens of canvases, some rolled, others framed and stacked.

Soon, painted figures, lurid and bulging, were mingling with real people in a terrifying kaleidoscope, and I found myself reaching out for something to lean against, but quickly focusing instead – across a crowded loft space – on the deep, earthy pools that were the eyes of Donatella Alvarez…

Next, and in what seemed like a flash, I was walking down an empty corridor in a hotel… having been in a room, quite definitely been in a room, but with no recollection of whose room, or of what had happened in that room, or of how I’d wound up there in the first place. Then, another flash and I wasn’t in a hotel corridor any more but walking across the Brooklyn Bridge, quickly, and in time to something – in time, I soon realized, to the suspension cables flickering in geometric patterns against the pale blue of the early morning sky.

I stopped and turned around.

I looked back at the familiar postcard view of downtown Manhattan, aware now that I couldn’t properly account for the last eight hours of my life – but aware, too, that I was fully conscious again, and alert and cold and sore all over. I quickly decided that whatever reasons I’d had for walking to Brooklyn had surely atrophied by now, seized up, been lost to some fossilized energy configuration that could never be re-animated. So I headed back over the bridge towards downtown, and walked – limped , as it turned out – all the way home to my apartment on Tenth Street.

I SAY LIMPED , because I had obviously sprained my left ankle at some point during the night. And when I was getting undressed to take a shower, I saw that there was extensive bruising on my body. This explained the soreness – or partly explained it – but in addition to these leaden blue patches on my chest and ribs, there was something else… something that looked curiously like a cigarette burn on my right forearm. I ran a finger over the small reddish mark, pressed it, winced , then circled it slowly – and as I did so, I felt a deep sense of unease, an incipient terror, tightening its grip around my solar plexus.

But I resisted, because I didn’t want to think about this – didn’t want to think about what may or may not have gone on in some hotel room, didn’t want to think about any of it. I had a meeting with Carl Van Loon and Hank Atwood in a few hours’ time and what I needed more than anything else – certainly more than I needed a debilitating panic attack – was to get myself organized.

And focused.

So I took two more pills, shaved, got dressed and started going over the notes I’d made the previous day.

The arrangement with Van Loon was that I’d show up at his office on Forty-eighth Street at around 10 a.m. We’d have a talk about the situation, compare notes and maybe devise a provisional gameplan. Then we’d go to meet Hank Atwood for lunch.

In the cab on the way to Forty-eighth Street, I tried to concentrate on the intricacies of corporate financing, but I kept being appalled anew at what had happened and at the degree of recklessness I was clearly capable of.

An eight-hour blackout ?

Might that not just have constituted a warning sign?

But then I remembered getting sick in a bathroom once, years ago – actually throwing up blood into the washbasin – and immediately afterwards going back out to the living-room, to the little pile of product in the centre of the table… and to the cigarettes and to the vodka and to the elastic, malleable, untrackable conversation…

And then – twenty minutes later – having it happen again.

And again.

So… obviously not.

I stopped the cab at Forty-seventh Street and walked the remaining block to the Van Loon Building. By the time I got into the lobby, I had just about managed to suppress my limp. I was greeted by Van Loon’s personal assistant and taken up to a large suite of offices on the sixty-second floor. I noticed that in the general design of the place – in the corridors and in the enormous reception area – there was an impeccable though slightly bewildering blend of the traditional and the modern, the stuffy and the streamlined – a sumptuous, seamless fusion of mahogany, ebony, marble, steel, chrome and glass. This made the company seem, at once, like an august, venerable institution and a pared-down, front-line operation – staffed mostly, I have to say, by guys about fifteen years my junior. Nevertheless, I had a keen sense that nothing here was beyond me, that it was all for the taking, that the corporate structure of a place like this was delicate and gossamer-thin and would yield to the slightest pressure.

But as I sat down in the reception area, beneath a huge Van Loon & Associates company logo, my mood shifted again, lurched a little closer to the edge, and I was assailed by queasiness and doubt.

How had I ended up here?

How had I come to be working for a private investment bank?

Why was I wearing a suit?

Who was I?

I’m not sure I know the answers to these questions even now. In fact, a few moments ago – in the bathroom of the Northview Motor Lodge – staring into the mugshot-sized mirror above the stained wash-basin, with the hum and occasional rattle of the ice-machine outside penetrating the walls, and my skull, I struggled to see even a trace of the individual that had begun to form and crystallize out of that mass of chemically-induced impulses and counter-impulses, out of that irresistible surge of busyness. I searched, too, in the lines of my face for any indications of the individual I might eventually have become – a big-time player, a destroyer, a spiritual descendant of Jay Gould – but all there was in my reflection, all I recognized, with no real indications of anything the future might have held, was me … the familiar face of a thousand shaves.