Joshua Cohen - Book of Numbers

Into the Messe again. A guard halted me, examined my blood against my tag—“What happens to you?”

“Nothing,” I said. “I’m here for the panel on zombies.”

He said, “There is that today?” As if everyone was in peril.

“It’s on just now — zombie fiction, the undead.”

He was giddy now, silly, “That is the book I please to read.”

I went to the bathrooms and wet papertowels and pressed my face, spiffed up. Then slogged past the tropicalized Pacific Islander stalls, went unrecognized by the Czechs and Slovaks who just a diurnity ago had been my brothers.

Pod caffeine, strudel in a sleeve. And while I was at it, why not, grabbing the giveaway notebooks and ballpoints.

Lisabeth helmed the booth in mourningdress chic, channeling both the orphan and widow (typesetting jargon: an orphan the opening line of a paragraph stranded alone at the bottom of a page, a widow the closing line stranded alone at the top). It was as if she’d traveled prepared for a loss, a charcoal dress quivering to the knees. Her face was swollen from the crying or bouquets. Aaron would’ve appreciated that — he’d always been attracted to women allergic to flowers, and latex.

The foldingtable was shrouded in blueblack linens, furled roses and closelipped tulips, bonbons, sekt. Bereavement cards in soft and hardback, boxed sets. I lined behind the wild sprigs of a deliverer who turned around and cringed. My jaw must’ve been trickling again. Lisabeth signed for him, took another babysbreathed bouquet, set it among the aster strewings, doing her duty stalwart. Such rectitude, she wouldn’t even avail herself of a chair, but stayed standing as if all the books the agency had ever represented were balanced on her head.

I was about to pay a visit emptyhanded.

But then a woman cut in front of me — Cal’s editor, Lene Termin, Earth Mother. A batik peasant smock, a chunky butchness latebloomed with antidepressants.

Lene didn’t even meet my sneer, only said, “Pardon, Entschuldigung.”

She said to Lisabeth, “Pat Sagenhaft, my partner, just picked Seth up at Newark.”

“So helpful,” was all Lisabeth had.

“Pat’s going to sit in with him and the lawyer — Rich?”

“Spence Rich.”

“But just in an advisory capacity — make sure no one’s getting shafted.”

“Thanks.”

“That meeting’s for noon, NY noon. Meantime and with your OK I’ll go personally make the followup calls, to reassure the clients, offer like second opinion, outsider perspective. The immediate goal is fending off the poachers.”

“I understand. And thanks.”

“Again I can’t stress this enough, I’m here for you — Aaron meant a lot to me. If it makes sense to merge, you’ll merge — I’ve already got a few names in mind and even just casually a couple of feelers.”

“Already?”

“Too soon, but — interesting feelers.”

“Your partner Pat’s still with Riba Group, yes? Or Schwartzlist?”

“Then again it’s never too soon — especially with our girl to take care of, the princess of Princeton.”

“Achsa.”

“Exactly — we’ll be sure to involve her in all aspects of the process.”

“Achsa,” Lisabeth snuffed.

“I’m so proud of how you’re holding up, Lisabeth — that won’t go unnoticed. Now is there anything else I can do?”

There was nothing, and Lene lunged across the table to roll Lisabeth in her breast, then left, oblivious of me. Aar had loathed her—“Hel” he’d called her, “Helene, Queen of the Norse,” senior editor at Viking.

Lisabeth, poor wealthy Lisabeth who’d never understood how to take advantage, forsaken by her lanky associate with the quiff and clip, her underling, but in terms of power dynamics, overling, Seth — I could write it out already, it could write itself out clearly even black on black: Seth would coordinate publicity, the funeral, any lunches he’d take with other agents from other agencies he’d explain away as merely convivial, or acculturating, but then by the time Lisabeth’d get back to NY Seth would’ve installed himself either in Aar’s old corner niche, after having removed Miri’s sexless bed and finally fumigated the closets of her mothballs, or in newer officing toward the top of a Flatiron vivarium repping the bottom half of the list, which, the bottom half quarter, would mean repping me. Clever boy. With any brains he’d eventually move into media, but still keep a bit of lit to keep the cred up. If he or his next partners had any class they’d offer Lisabeth a job, or wouldn’t, that’s the only point on which I’m undecided — I’m sure Lene’ll be in touch.

To me, Lisabeth said, “The news just broke online.”

“Seth?”

“He wrote the statement, but I — why do you deserve an explanation? And what happened to your cheek?”

“I don’t. And Iceland happened.”

“Another tragedy another excuse to drink? You’re bleeding.”

“Take it from me: Bleeding means I have a heart.”

“Anyway,” Lisabeth shrilled, “before he flew back he left this envelope for you,” and she handed me a manila.

“Who? Seth did?” I gutted it for what, I’m not sure — a book already lost? already finished?

“It’s Cal’s, his manuscript. Seth said Cal was giving you a copy. For your thoughts. If you have any thoughts.”

“Appreciated.”

“You’re not acting appreciative. What did you expect?”

“Forget it.” The titlepage was inscribed: “With compliments and condolences — we have to be in touch — sethustings@szlayliteristic.com.”

“Care to tell me what you’re doing here, Josh?”

“What?”

“Here, in Frankfurt, why?”

“Aar never told you?”

“Told me what?”

“He never said anything about Switzerland? Our deal?”

“You have a deal or just a proposal, and didn’t you just say Iceland?”

“He mentioned nothing whatsoever?”

“All I have is what I get from your wife.”

“Exwife.”

“Not yet. Don’t worry, though — don’t tell me where you’re living and I can’t tell her where to have you served.”

“It’s complicated, Lis.”

“That’s what her companion’s always saying, the actor. Phoning twice a day about an Amex bill. He canceled the card. But he’s wondering for next time whether it pays to get the extra identity theft protection. I’m like customer care with him. Member services.”

“So you’re just the person to talk to.”

“What?”

“My money — can I have it?”

She stiffened, “Your money for what?”

“That’s why I was meeting Aar.”

“He was giving you a loan?”

“It was sort of like he owed me.”

“So send a record or invoice, I’ll have a check sent when I’m back.”

“Not happening.”

“If it’s an address thing I can wire you online.”

“Not that. Cash.”

Lisabeth — let her be stunned by the gall of it all and not the truth of it. She tonguewriggled her toothgap, “Cash?”

“I need it bad.”

“You need it badly.”

“That’s correct.”

“But Seth has the agency Visa.”

“You can’t just stake me yourself?”

One inflamed white bud at tonguetip, “I make $40K a year.”