Joshua Cohen - Book of Numbers

“I’m interested in making a bid for rights,” I said. “I’m an editor at a discerning house in Sri Lanka.”

But Seth’s face was off wandering behind me, as if Sri Lanka were there.

“The new book by Caleb Krast, specifically. I’m told it’s a novel. We’ll bind it in coral. Dustjacket of leather, porpoise or whale. Targeted advertising and outreach to blogs. We’re the best and only operation on the island — I’ll translate it myself.”

Even Seth’s wince was forced, as he came around the table and said: “First off, Sri Lankans are a linguistically diverse people who tend to read Anglo-American writers of quality in the original. Second, Sri Lanka, as a former colony of Britain, is a member of the Commonwealth, and so its territory is typically covered under the terms of a UK agreement, which we’ve already concluded, prefair, in the case of Mr. Krast.”

“Concluded lucratively?”

“With all respect, Mr. Cohen,” but then she ran between us and cut him off.

She: Seth held her and shook her, and only then did I have her — it was Lisabeth Block. She was shaking crying and holding her nose, emulging. Seth let her go. He was diligent with a tissue.

Lisabeth was a bucktoothed and fawnish blonde braided by the better schools. Aar had hired high, and highstrung. She’d never needed this job, she’d only needed something to blame, to have some purpose to the days between breakdowns, ballets, Montauk, and Maine. She’d had a relative on the Mayflower but only Aar ever remembered his name. She was 22 years old, rather she’d been that age in my mind for over a decade. Not much more than a voicemail, the voice that put me through. I’d try to banter, I’d flirt with myself. She’d kept her distances, played close to the varsity vest, pencil skirt snug at the thighs.

But now she clung to me, and because I wasn’t sure why, it was my fault — I read all of Rach’s grievances graven across her cheeks, inconsolable.

“What’s wrong?” I said. “Why don’t you pick that up?”

Lisabeth stepped away and dabbed her lipfuzz, “What?”

I said, “A very small person’s having a conniption inside your very small purse,” and then Seth said, “That might be her.”

By the time Lisabeth’d broken a nail to her Tetheld the ringtone had stopped. “I can’t,” she said, but went to ID what she’d missed and as she did the ringtone started again and with her crying the effect was of sirens.

“Achsa,” she said to Seth, to me, and with a jagged thumb accepted the call.

“Achsa,” she said, and heeled toward the exits, “Hello? — Frankfurt, in Frankfurt — hold on, I’m taking you with me.”

“What’s with the hysterics?”

Seth unfolded a chair, “Sit down.”

“Where’s Aar?”

“Joshua, please.” He went back around the table and I sat tote in lap creaky across like I was begging for a temp job. “We’ve been setting up here since yesterday morning,” he said. “Mr. Szlay was to have flown in last night.”

“But?”

Seth fluffed his tietips, and his beltbuckle was a square and compass—“Why are you here?”

“You don’t know?”

“No.”

“Does Lisabeth?”

“We haven’t had the chance to discuss it.”

“So, what? Aar’s missing and I’m the mystery?”

“What I’m telling you isn’t public. But you’re his friend?”

“Guilty, yes. But you know this.”

“I know that when an agent takes such an interest in a client who isn’t writing, he has to be a friend.”

“So?”

“Mr. Szlay.”

“Go on.”

“Had a heartattack.”

“Fuck? Where?”

“Up in the plane. Midflight.”

“Is there a number where I can reach him?”

“He went, Josh, before they even landed.”

“What — he went?”

“All agency travel lists Lisabeth as emergency contact — the airline notified her, and she’s been trying ever since to contact Achsa.”

“But where is he?”

“They diverted to Reykjavík, Iceland.”

“Aar’s where in Reykjavík, Iceland?”

“Understand me — he went, left, died. Before they even landed.”

“Where?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, where fucking exactly did he die?”

“Up in the air. He died in midair.”

“But above what where? Motherfucker, why won’t you tell me?”

I both can and can’t explain my focus. I needed something fixed, some fixed grounding at the time.

Aar died smack in the middle of the ocean. Aaron Szlay, in the middle of a cloud.

“I’m sorry,” Seth said, “but why are you here again? I don’t have his schedule — were you two supposed to meet?”

Now. I can’t write this.

Can’t. Cut.

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a-bintel-b.tlog.tetrant.com/2011/30/06/thedumpydump1

if you go online you can find out a lot about mummies. fact: the oldest mummy ever recorded is actually of a south american child. two millennia older than anything egyptian. double fact: when the mummy of ramses ii was so deteriorated that the egyptians had to fly it from cairo to paris where it got modern preservation the mummy was issued an egyptian passport listing its occupation as king (deceased).

even if youre going to get more specific and tetrate “mummies in the department of egyptian art of the metropolitan museum of art on the upper east side of nyc” youll get too much to handle. fact: that actually the mummies arent the most important artifacts of the metropolitans egyptian collection but instead the small little wooden models of the thebian servants who were supposed to come to life to serve their pharaoh in the afterlife are. double fact: the big big temple building reconstructed at the tip of the wing wasnt looted from egypt as my x2b told me the many times we visited but instead was given by the egypt government to the met as a token of appreciation because it was going to be drowned by the construction of the aswani dam (the nile).

but despite any terms you tetrate one thing youll never get is that the associate curator of the department of egyptian art of the metropolitan museum of art on the upper east side of nyc is a whore. shes a mummy coordinator how perfect is that responsible for the linens or like the wrappings of the mummies that have like hieroglyphic or hieratic demotic writing on them that help if not identify them by name then at least by date region because of the materials and let me say also I got all this not from my x2b but online. because j always lied. its like sites were invented just to call him on his bullshit.

at the met he was always into the fatties and this one wasnt any different she was chubbs chubbseroo like a sacrophagus. also dark enough that i prejudged from tetrating her that she was egyptian herself but the last names persian though im not sure jewish. on her cuny faculty homepage her titles listed along with a list of her publications on femininity and exhibitions curated like the one in washington dc last fall but im getting ahead of myself. i got her home addy too in excellent school district but trainless tribeca her parents def had paid for and her workphone and workemail at least but im getting ahead of myself no links.

id been prepping a new campaign for a sportswear client unmentionable in this context except it has all the cool hip eurosport feel of an adidas but also the vintage made in america brand identity of a converse despite it being neither so use your imagination and also unlike converse it doesnt just specialize in shoes. i was going around in their clothes for a while just to get a feel and remember thinking even a size or two bigger the clothes would be so comfortable i thought they would be kickass maternitywear. they were!! i wore them to work and that was acceptable because everyone else was wearing them like they wanted to be anywhere but at work like playing golf or tennis or taking couple strolls through the wetlands preserves or playing lacrosse with the 2.5s against the garage before refinishing. advertising is all about that aspiration and planning for the move you want to be when you grow up even though only grownups really have the real money to spend on the products and services especially advertised. like when you sit next on the bus where you can parse the ads and the cheaper the campaigns the cheaper this is evident. that chica doesnt actually want to go to that shitty profiteering technical college for an associates degree in underpaid midwifing as a second language what her pose communicates from the zoomy cleavage and the way her tush juts directly toward the older whiter professor photomanaged next to her is that she actually wants to marry up just like in the jewelry ads the men are always much older but more tanned and rested and successfully physically heavier and thicker than the women because the ads are intended to communicate to men that if you take care of your woman and take the relationship honest into metals and gems this is what youll live to. But this is all kindergarten stuff and I worked on the larger accounts that had to be more subtle while being less subtle too and in every way larger but anyway the basics are the basics.