Jonathan Lethem - The Wall of the Sky, the Wall of the Eye

There was nothing bright or animated in the way he spoke. His voice was like furniture with the varnish carefully sanded off. “But I haven’t really completed my job until I understand what happened,” he went on. “Whether a crime was committed. Whether you’re in some sort of trouble with which I can help.”

She shook her head.

“Where were you?” he said.

“I was with a man.”

“I see. For almost two weeks?”

“Yes.”

She was still holding the address book. He raised his large hand in its direction, without uncurling a finger to point. “We called every man you know.”

“This — this was someone I just met. Are these questions necessary, Mr. Pupkiss?”

“If the time was spent voluntarily, no.” His lips tensed, his whole expression deepened, like gravy jelling. “I’m sorry, Miss Rush.”

Pupkiss in his solidity touched her somehow. Reassured her. If he went away, she saw now, she’d be alone with the questions. She wanted him to stay a little longer and voice the questions for her.

But now he was gently sarcastic. “You’re answerable to no one, of course. I only suggest that in the future you might spare the concern of your neighbors, and the effort of my department — a single phone call would be sufficient.”

“I didn’t realize how much time had passed,” she said. He couldn’t know how truthful that was.

“I’ve heard it can be like that,” he said, surprisingly bitter. “But it’s not criminal to neglect the feelings of others; just adolescent.”

You don’t understand , she nearly cried out. But she saw that he would view it as one or the other, a menace or self-indulgence. If she convinced him of her distress, he’d want to protect her.

She couldn’t let harm come to E. She wanted to comprehend what had happened, but Pupkiss was too blunt to be her investigatory tool.

Reflecting in this way, she said, “The things that happen to people don’t always fit into such easy categories as that.”

“I agree,” he said, surprising her again. “But in my job it’s best to keep from bogging down in ontology. Missing Persons is an extremely large and various category. Many people are lost in relatively simple ways, and those are generally the ones I can help. Good day, Miss Rush.”

“Good day.” She didn’t object as he moved to the door. Suddenly she was eager to be free of this ponderous man, his leaden integrity. She wanted to be left alone to remember the night before, to think of the one who’d devoured her and left her reeling. That was what mattered.

E. had somehow caused two weeks to pass in one feverish night, but Pupkiss threatened to make the following morning feel like two weeks.

He shut the door behind him so carefully that there was only a little huff of displaced air and a tiny click as the bolt engaged.

“It’s me,” she said into the intercom.

There was only static. She pressed the button again. “Let me come up.”

He didn’t answer, but the buzzer at the door sounded. She went into the hall and upstairs to his door.

“It’s open,” he said.

E. was seated at the table, holding a drink. The cat was curled up on the pile of envelopes. The apartment was dark. Still, she saw what she hadn’t before: he lived terribly, in rooms that were wrecked and provisional. The plaster was cracked everywhere. Cigarette stubs were bunched in the baseboard corners where, having still smoldered, they’d tanned the linoleum. The place smelled sour, in a way that made her think of the sourness she’d washed from her body in her own bath an hour before.

He tilted his head up, but didn’t meet her gaze. “Why are you here?”

“I wanted to see you.”

“You shouldn’t.”

His voice was ragged, his expression had a crushed quality. His hand on the glass was tensed like a claw. But even diminished and bitter he seemed to her effervescent, made of light.

“We — something happened when we made love,” she said. The words came tenderly. “We lost time.”

“I warned you. Now leave.”

“My life,” she said, uncertain what she meant.

“Yes, it’s yours,” he shot back. “Take it and go.”

“If I gave you two weeks, it seems the least you can do is look me in the eye,” she said.

He did it, but his mouth trembled as though he were guilty or afraid. His face was beautiful to her.

“I want to know you,” she said.

“I can’t let that happen,” he said. “You see why.” He tipped his glass back and emptied it, grimacing.

“This is what always happens to you?”

“I can’t answer your questions.”

“If that happens, I don’t care.” She moved to him and put her hands in his hair.

He reached up and held them there.

A woman has come into my life. I hardly know how to speak of it.

I was in the station, enduring the hectoring of Dell Armickle, the commander of the Vice Squad. He is insufferable, a toad from Hell. He follows the donut cart through the offices each afternoon, pinching the buttocks of the Jamaican woman who peddles the donuts and that concentrated urine others call coffee. This day he stopped at my desk to gibe at the headlines in my morning paper. “Union Boss Stung In Fat Farm Sex Ring — ha! Made you look, didn’t I?”

“What?”

“Pupkiss, you’re only pretending to be thick. How much you got hidden away in that Swedish bank account by now?”

“Sorry?” His gambits were incomprehensible.

“Whatsis?” he said, poking at my donut, ignoring his own blather better than I could ever hope to. “Cinnamon?”

“Whole wheat,” I said.

Then she appeared. She somehow floated in without causing any fuss, and stood at the head of my desk. She was pale and hollow-eyed and beautiful, like Renée Falconetti in Dreyer’s Jeanne d’Arc.

“Officer Pupkiss,” she said. Is it only in the light of what followed that I recall her speaking my name as though she knew me? At least she spoke it with certainty, not questioning whether she’d found her goal.

I’d never seen her before, though I can only prove it by tautology: I knew at that moment I was seeing a face I would never forget.

Armickle bugged his eyes and nostrils at me, imitating both clown and beast. “Speak to the lady, Cornell,” he said, managing to impart to the syllables of my given name a childish ribaldry.

“I’m Pupkiss,” I said awkwardly.

“I’d like to talk to you,” she said. She looked only at me, as though Armickle didn’t exist.

“I can take a hint,” said Armickle. “Have fun, you two.” He hurried after the donut cart.

“You work in Missing Persons,” she said.

“No,” I said. “Petty Violations.”

“Before, you used to work in Missing Persons—”

“Never. They’re a floor above us. I’ll walk you to the elevator if you’d like.”

“No.” She shook her head curtiy, impatiently. “Forget it. I want to talk to you. What are Petty Violations?”

“It’s an umbrella term. But I’d sooner address your concerns than try your patience with my job description.”

“Yes. Could we go somewhere?”

I led her to a booth in the coffee shop downstairs. I ordered a donut, to replace the one I’d left behind on my desk. She drank coffee, holding the cup with both hands to warm them. I found myself wanting to feed her, build her a nest.

“Cops really do like donuts,” she said, smiling weakly.

“Or toruses,” I said.

“Sorry? You mean the astrological symbol?”

“No, the geometric shape. A torus. A donut is in the shape of one. Like a life preserver, or a tire, or certain space stations. It’s a little joke of mine: cops don’t like donuts, they like toruses.”