Laird Hunt - The Impossibly

But of course having thought things through I had to wait until dark before I could do anything. I passed the time sitting next to the radio. Also, I paced for a while. The apartment is not exactly what you would call spacious, but there is adequate room to make a large enough triangle or even diamond if one is given, as I have long been, to geometric pacing. When I had had enough of the radio and walking out approximations of complex shapes on the floor, and you might be surprised by how long I am able to engage in such activities, I lay down on my bed and dozed and thought some more, or, rather, engaged in repetitive thinking. I thought, over and over, and with several accompanying composite images, one of which involved small blue crabs piled in a bucket, then said crabs blackened and piled on a large plate: I should have asked for something else; I should have asked for nothing; or not nothing, but not quite something either. Frankly (and I thought this even as I attempted to gather myself), I had begun to suspect that it might not happen — that they would skip the whole thing as too expensive, too tiresome, too much. But not as too complicated — complicated they didn’t mind, they had proved this time and again. And anyway it wasn’t. In fact, in the end, as far as their part was concerned, it was quite simple. It is quite simple. Really. Or will be.

The old woman wasn’t home. I had pocketed the dagger (imagining, as I did so, the reaction I would get if I presented it at a tricky moment — smiles, a punch in the mouth, no more teeth) and the photograph and set off through the dark streets. Without the old woman to guide me, it hadn’t been easy finding the little house. It sat at the end of several tricky turns, and I think I spent the better part of an hour negotiating them. Darkness, of course, complicates any route, even the simplest one — say from bed to bathroom; actually that’s a poor example; interiors are often more complex than exteriors; even the most intimate ones; I had an apartment once that seemed always to be shifting around me; or at any rate I kept banging into walls and furniture; usually with my shoulder; I’m not sure what is at the heart of this phenomenon; possibly the darkness; certainly not the walls and furniture; likely myself; but also the darkness; the darkness has some role; fucking darkness; even if I also love it, etc. At the end I did find it, as I’ve already made clear. I tried the door, found it open, and went in. Little had changed. A packet of crackers, which I ate, had appeared on the kitchen counter, and there was a similar assortment of fruit on the table. The bedroom, which with the exception of the toilet, was the only other room in the house, seemed much neater than it had when I had lain there in the dark, but that was really just speculation. I wanted, insofar as it was possible, to avoid speculation. The business at hand, my last assignment as it were, seemed to merit more. I would, I said aloud to myself rather pompously, restrict myself to the evidence in making my final determination. Or course, leads were different. The pursuit of leads seemed to admit some degree of speculation. And what beyond speculation could have brought me back to the house of this old woman? I was momentarily at a loss. Fortunately, at that very moment, as I stood with my hand in a drawer full of undergarments, a voice, hers, said, don’t turn around. Hi, I’m sorry about this, I said. It’s just I’m making an investigation and wanted to ask you some questions. I’m hungry, she said. You can ask me your questions over dinner. This seemed reasonable, even civilized. I took my hand out of the drawer and started to turn around. Don’t turn around, she said, and put your hand back in the drawer. I followed both her instructions. She gave me the name of a restaurant, told me to wait five minutes before following her, then left.

Her house was much easier to leave than to get to, and I soon found myself negotiating small streets, where wisteria spilled over balconies and hyacinth and jacaranda were in bloom. During the day, these streets were likely bustling, but at night there were only a few unsavory shadows and the occasional cat, and despite the flowers and stars overhead, I was not unhappy to leave them and, after following a long row of pine trees and climbing a steep flight of steps, to arrive at the restaurant. Actually, I am omitting the part where I had to stop and ask directions. The young man I interpolated was exceedingly polite and even called me sir, which was not at all unwelcome. It is only in recent years, and even now infrequently, that anyone troubles him / herself to call me sir. I have wondered if this has anything to do with the fact that for so long I was so heavy, and now I am so gaunt. I look like one of those ancient employees you come across in medium-size family-run operations — the one who, a little wobbly on his / her pins, receives the item the other more limber family members have pulled down. The comparison is faulty only inasmuch as I am, despite the above-mentioned tendency to keel over, somewhat more agile than such individuals. I’m not, in fact, quite that far along, I’m not really far along at all, only to look at.

The restaurant was extraordinarily crowded. The walls were covered in photographs, of various citizens and sections of the city, as well as with rather hideous caricatures, possibly of the owner or some other somewhat distinguished gentleman. Waiters came and went around extraordinarily encumbered tables. An individual was playing an accordion. Another was playing a guitar. I looked for the approximation I knew to be my party, but saw no one who fell within the parameters. Clearly, however, if I took a table, she would find me. I was beginning to do so when a man called to me from across the restaurant. Actually, I’m with someone, I said. She won’t be coming, come over here and sit down, he said. The man, although he had nice eyes, was quite a fucking sight. It looked like he’d had an extra chin sewn onto the side of his face and also, in the throat area, a little like he’d swallowed a couple of tennis balls. It’s not communicable, he said. At least not highly, otherwise they wouldn’t let me in here. It’s just I’m a little busy, I said. With your investigation? You know about my investigation? He smiled. I sat down. What will you eat? I’ve already eaten. We both know that’s not true. Then I would like some boiled meat. He called a waiter over. The waiter went away. Are you …? No questions please, he said. We sat there. I listened to the accordion and the guitar. I don’t know what he did. The food arrived. I asked him if he would like some. He declined. He leaned forward and I could see his shoulder holster. I wondered if this was him. I’m not him, if that’s what you are wondering, he said. I was. Well, I’m not. The gun has nothing to do with this or with you. Well, that’s good, I suppose. Eat, now, he said. I did. The boiled meat was excellent. He poured me a glass of wine, which I quickly polished off. More? he asked. Yes, please, I said, registering that I was beginning, slightly, to enjoy myself. I was a little disappointed or disgruntled or put off or taken aback, but I’m doing much better now, I said. Good, he said. What’s wrong with your face, anyway? It’s a condition. I’ve had those. Not this one you haven’t. He had very pretty green eyes and delicate eyebrows. I was about to remark that his face must at one point have been quite sympathetic, perhaps even handsome, I had even settled on a way to say this very politely, had planned to make an allusion to a book I had once heard summarized, involving a tortoise someone had covered in gold, although actually the tortoise had ended by dying badly, from the gold, ah well, I would have omitted that part, when he leaned forward and asked me if I recognized him. No, I said. I was terribly handsome before all this. I can believe it. But you don’t recognize me? No. Well then let’s leave it. We did, but it troubled me a little afterward. I have been told many times that the old forget, that this is part of their reward for having lasted so long, but when it happens, or when I am aware that it is happening, I derive little satisfaction from it. Usually what I forget are key words and phrases, so that I look even more foolish than usual in clever company. The unpleasant episodes, which have been legion, I remember. The pleasant episodes, such as that visit to that earlier city on the coast, I also remember, but such memories pain me. The memory of her hands and of her back and of her lovely, careful movement pains me. Just as the memory of the way I think it may have ended makes me sick. You haven’t changed, he said. Someone told me recently that I looked much better than I used to. I don’t agree. I thought you said we were going to leave it. We are. Good. Go over and tip the accordion player. What? Put a tip in his basket and compliment the young guitar player, he’s really coming along. I stood. I had the idea that I would just walk right out of the restaurant, go home, drink a beverage, put a pillow over my head, and wait for whoever was coming for me, but when I reached the accordion player he jazzed up his tune and looked at me expectantly, and the guitar player, who really wasn’t that bad, did the same. So I reached into my pocket, pulled out some bills, and made to place them in the little basket that sat between them on the table. Only I saw that there was an envelope there. Should I take this? I asked the accordion player. Tip me and compliment him, and you can take anything you like. All right, I said. I dropped the bills into the basket and paid the young man an exaggerated compliment. The two beamed at me and I beamed back then picked up the envelope, turned, and discovered that my interlocutor was gone. When I reached the table, I saw that he had left enough money to cover my meal and also that he had left me a note wrapped around another note. The first note read, put this note in the envelope. I opened the envelope. It was empty. I thought for a moment, then decided that by “this” he was referring to the second piece of folded paper. I put it in the envelope, which I then licked and sealed. Then I sat down, had a sip of wine, thought a little about my interlocutor’s chin (and here is when I settled on the image of the swallowed tennis balls), decided it wasn’t so bad, his chin, wondered if I had known him, decided I had, thought about the investigation, smiled at the musicians, then took out the tiny dagger, cut open the envelope, unfolded the piece of paper it contained, and read the following: