David Wallace - Infinite jest

‘As in a civilian-type individual receives a certain item. Don’t tell me this is news to you guys. Not on InterLace pulse, this item. Arrives via normal physical mail. We’re sure you heard, Rémy. A cartridge-copy of a certain let’s call it between ourselves “the Entertainment.” As in in the mail, without warning or motive. Out of the blue.’

‘From somewhere blue?’

The B.S.S. operative had perspired also through his rouge, and his mascara had melted to become whorish. ‘A person with no political value to anybody except that the Saudi Ministry of Entertainment made one the hell of a shrill stink.’

‘The medical attache, the specialist of digesting, you refer to.’ Marathe shrugged again in that maddening Francophone way that can mean several things. ‘Your offices wish to ask was the Entertainment’s cartridge disseminated through our mechanisms?’

‘Don’t let’s waste your finite time, ami old friend,’ Steeply said. ‘The mischief happens to occur in metropolitan Boston. Postal codes route the package through the desert Southwest, and we know your dissemination-scheme’s routing mechanism is proposed for somewhere between Phoenix and the border down here.’ Steeply had worked hard at feminizing his expressions and gesturing. ‘It would be a bit starry-eyed of O.U.S. not to think of your distinguished cell, no?’

Beneath Marathe’s windbreaker was a sportshirt whose breast pocket was filled with many pens. He said: ‘Us, we don’t have the information on even casualties. From this blue dazzle you speak of.’

Steeply was trying to extract something stubborn from inside his other shoe. ‘Upwards of twenty, Rémy. Out of commission altogether. The attache and his wife, the wife a Saudi citizen. Four more raggers, all with embassy cards. Couple neighbors or something. The rest mostly police before word got to a level they could stop police from going in before they killed the power.’

‘Local police forces. Gendarmes.’

‘The local constabulary.’

‘The minions of the law of the land.’

‘The local constabulary were shall we say unprepared for an Entertainment like this.’ Steeply even removed and replaced his pumps in the upright-on-one-leg-bringing-other-foot-up-behind-his-bottom way of a feminine U.S.A. woman. But he appeared huge and bloated as a woman, not merely unattractive but inducing something like sexual despair. He said, ‘The attaché had diplomatic status, Rémy. Mideast. Saudi. Said to be close to minor members of the royal family.’

Marathe sniffed hard, as if congested of the nose. ‘A puzzling,’ he said.

‘But also a compatriot of yours. Canadian citizenship. Born in Ottawa, to Arab emigres. Visa lists a residence in Montreal.’

‘And Services Without Specificity wishes maybe to ask were there below-the-surface connections that make the individual not such a civilian, unconnected. To ask of us would the A.F.R. wish to make of him the example.’

Steeply was removing dirt from his bottom, swatting himself on the bottom. He stood more or less directly over Marathe. Marathe sniffed. ‘We have neither digestive medicals nor diplomatic entourages on any lists for action. You have personally seen A.F.R.’s initial lists. Nor in particular Montreal civilians. We have, as one will say, larger seafood to cook.’

Steeply was looking out over the desert and city, also, as he swatted at himself. He seemed to have noticed the gespenst-phenomenon of his own shadow. Marathe for some reason pretended again to sniff the nose. The wind was moderate and constant and of about the temperature of a U.S.A. clothes-dryer set on Low. It made the shrill whistling sounds. Also sounds of the blowing grit. Weeds-of-tumbling like enormous hairballs rolled often across the Interstate Highway of I-10 far below. Their specular perspective, the reddening light on vast tan stone and the oncoming curtain of dusk, the further elongation of their monstrous agnate shadows: all was almost mesmerizing. Neither man seemed able to look at anything but the vista below. Marathe could simultaneously speak in English and think in French. The desert was the tawny color of the hide of the lion. Their speaking without looking at one another, facing both the same direction — this gave their conversing an air of careless intimacy, as of old friends at the cartridge-viewer together, or a long-married couple. Marathe thought this as he opened and closed his upheld hand, making over the city Tucson a huge and black blossom open itself and close itself.

And Steeply raised his bare arms and held them out and crossed them, maybe as if signalling for distant aid; this made X’s and pedentive V’s over much in the city Tucson. ‘Still, Rémy, but born in the hated-by-you Ottawa, this civilian attache, and connected to a major buyer of trans-grid entertainment. And follow-up out of the Boston offices reports possible indications of the victim’s prior possible involvement with the widow of the auteur we both know was responsible for the Entertainment in the first place. The samizdat.’

‘Prior?’

Steeply produced from his handbag Belgian cigarettes of a many-mm. and habitually female type. ‘Film director’s wife’d taught out at Brandeis where the victim’d done his residency. The husband was on board over at A.E.C., and different agencies’ background checks indicated the wife was fucking just about everything with a pulse.’ With the slight pause of which Steeply could excel: ‘Particularly a Canadian pulse.’

‘Involvement of sexuality is what you are meaning, then, not politics.’

Steeply said, ‘This wife herself a Québecer, Rémy, from L’Islet county — Chief Tine says three years spent on Ottawa’s “Personnes Qui On Doit” list. There’s such a thing as political sex.’

‘I have said to you all we know. Civilians as individual warnings to O.N.A.N. are not our desire. This is known by you.’ Marathe’s eyes looked nearly closed. ‘And your tits, they have become cock-eyed, I will tell you. Services Without Specificity, they have given you ridiculous tits, and now they point differently.’

Steeply looked down at himself. One of the false breasts (surely false: surely they would not go as far as the hormonal, Marathe thought) nearly touched the chins of Steeply when his looking down produced his double chins. ‘I was asked to secure personal verification, is all,’ he said. ‘My general sense at the Office is the brass consider the whole incident a stumper. There’re theories and countertheories. There are even antitheories positing error, mistaken identity, sick hoax.’ His shrugging, with his hands on the prosthesis, appeared not at all Gallic. ‘Still: twenty-three human beings lost for all time: that’d be some hoax, no?’

Marathe sniffed. ‘Asked to verify by our mutual M. Tine? How you call him: “Rod, a God”?’

(Rodney Tine, Sr., Chief of Unspecified Services, acknowledged architect of O.N.A.N. and continental Reconfiguration, who held the ear of the White House of U.S.A., and whose stenographer had long doubled as the steno- grapher-cum-jeune-fille-de-Vendredi of M. DuPlessis, former asst. coordinator of the pan-Canadian Resistance, and whose passionate, ill-disguised attachment (Tine’s) to this double-amaneunsis — one Mile. Luria Perec, of Lamartine, county L’Islet, Quebec — gave rise to these questions of the high-level loyalties of Tine, whether he ‘doubled’ [41]for Quebec out of the love for Luria or ‘tripled’ the loyalties, pretending only to divulge secrets while secretly maintaining his U.S.A. fealty against the pull of an irresistible love, it was said.)

‘The, Rémy.’ It was clear that Steeply could not fix his breasts’ directions without pulling down severely his décolletage, which he was shy to do. He produced from his handbag sunglasses and put on the sunglasses. They were embellished with rhinestones and looked absurd. ‘Rod the God.’