Laird Hunt - The Impossibly

Or almost. Because as I lay there wrapped in blankets, my body realigned, my blood enjoying better circulation, my attention oscillating pleasantly between my highly capable manipulator, who sat in the corner drinking a beer, and a blood vessel that had recently burst in my eye, my thoughts turned to another occasion, some years before, when I had lain wrapped not in blankets but in towels, following a swim. I really didn’t think much about this, likely it would be more accurate to say I remembered, not thought, or to say it came to mind. It also came to mind, and I don’t say it did so accurately, that as I lay there, a woman came in and sat down beside me. This woman, if she was there, and if it was her, was beautiful, but also terrible, like something that should not have been, at least not in my company, and despite my exhaustion, I made an effort to sit up. Don’t, she said. Thank you, I said. It was very pleasant and very frightening to lie, exhausted and wrapped in towels, with her, my love, if it was her, sitting completely naked beside me. Part of the mechanism of this memory is that I was never certain. Afterward they told me that no one had come in and sat down beside me, although I had spoken about someone in my sleep. I believed them until a few months later when I thought I saw her again. Which shouldn’t matter to anyone besides me. Or should it? Clearly now I am thinking again.

But I did feel better and did for several days afterward. So much so that I even went out and took in some nightlife. In this city, apparently, much is done in the old quarries, which can be found in the oddest places — in the backs of government structures, behind a department store facade, beneath the vaulted roof of a magnificent structure into which, during the daytime, groups of individuals go to stand among the blasted rocks and, heads bowed, intone and sing. It was into something like this last that I went late one evening to witness, and in a small way to participate in, an event. It was not a nice event — there was a lot of white rock and then the white rock became splashed with red — but it was diverting. At one point, after I had, more or less symbolically, taken a turn with the mallet, I remarked to another individual that what the event lacked in subtlety it made up for in vigor. Yes, it’s colorful, the individual said. I feel like I’ve gotten some exercise. Yes, definitely, I think the upper portion of my forehead is damp. Yes, mine too. I won’t dream at all tonight. Or if you do it will be pleasant. Why is that? No one knows.

I also, in my freshly realigned state, contemplated taking a trip. The islands near this city are apparently very beautiful. Even at night. Perhaps, the travel agent told me, especially at night. She recommended some islands. On one of them an important battle had been fought. On another there had once been centaurs. They have found skeletons, she told me. One was obliged to travel by jet-foil to get to these islands if one wanted to leave at an hour of one’s choosing. Traveling by jet-foil was slightly, but only slightly expensive. I told her I would have to do some research. She suggested a book shop in the vicinity. None of the books I found, however, had much to say beyond the quality of the nightlife and the possibility of starlit strolls. Against which, I explained to the travel agent when I returned, I have nothing, in fact I enjoy looking up at the stars as I walk, though I have become accustomed to regarding them through a haze of light and suspended particles. There is very little of either of those on the islands I have recommended, the travel agent told me. Little or very little? I asked. I used the adverb for a reason, she said. Oh yes, I said. I also said, you look like someone I once knew. I think it’s disgusting, she said, when people say that. Disgusting? Yes. Would you like to go out with me? Yes. We went out. No we didn’t. Who am I kidding? She was definitely very pretty, and definitely not interested. Maybe this is why I then, completely changing the register of my voice, blurted out, someone is going to kill me. What? she said. Yes, that’s why I’m here, in this city, I said. I got my letter, I’ve been retired, they’re going to deactivate me. I’m not even sure I should be asking about starlit excursions. She seemed interested, perhaps even sympathetic. I quickly entertained certain relatively unadorned fantasies about escape mechanisms involving her. Can you swim? I asked. Of course, she said. Encouraged, I took out the tiny silver dagger and showed it to her. I’ve been given this, I said. Don’t cut yourself with that thing, she said. In the meantime I’m undertaking an investigation. So far, all I have to go on is a photograph and a tip. The photograph is blurred and the tip’s a little vague, but I have high hopes. Oh, she said. Or I said. I suddenly realized I was speaking rather loudly and shaking the knife in her face.

I thought it best for a time, the investigation notwithstanding, and still within this three-week time frame, to limit my contacts after that. I restricted myself to the old men in the park and, when they were out and about, to the old women in the little streets at the base of the rocky eminence. Also, once or twice, I saw the young woman with the limp and the high cheekbones. I’m waiting, I told her. We all know that, she said. She had come to change all the lightbulbs in the apartment. One evening, somewhat late, I had begun to be concerned that the bulbs in the various lights might burn out and that I might be left in the dark. I’d rather not take up the question of whether, given my earlier comments on the matter, there is some kind of contradiction involved in that admission. In fact, see above, there isn’t. It’s just that one night I got it into my head that my security might be seriously compromised if all the bulbs, for whatever reason, were to simultaneously burn out. So I put a note on the fridge. Why, exactly, am I doing this? she said. Start with the floor lamp, I said. She set to work and I followed her, both because I liked the way she worked — slowly, carefully — and because I wanted to make sure all the bulbs got changed. They did. I switched them all back on. Would you like a drink? I said. No, but I’m hungry. So have a snack. I can’t remember exactly what she had this time, but I can remember the sound of her lips smacking softly together, or (I’ve just tried it) pulling softly apart. That last may be my imagination — my hearing is actually quite bad. No doubt in watching her eat I was put in mind of other meals I had shared. I was young once too you know, I said. You’re not all that old now, she said. She then continued biting and chewing, making or not making the concomitant sounds. You’re actually, you know, rather remarkably beautiful, I said. And I couldn’t care less what you think, but thanks, she said. After a little more of this, she raised an eyebrow. You know the power could go out. I’ve thought of that. Or it could be shut off. Are you trying to scare me? Are you scared? Not now that the bulbs have been changed. Somehow, the prospect of having what I had envisaged happening because of the lightbulbs all burning out happen because the power had been extinguished didn’t particularly trouble me. It interested me, which was problematic enough, but didn’t cause that familiar feeling to radiate from my stomach around to my back — the one I experienced when I thought of the lightbulbs all going out in a simultaneous snapping of filament and the house being thrown into darkness and an individual moving forward (i.e., toward me) with, say, infrared equipment. You’re right, I said, that someone could turn the power off, but that doesn’t bother me. And anyway, it’s too easy. How so? I mean it’s too logical, in an easy sort of way. What do you mean by logical? I mean it’s boring. Define boring. You’re not one of these smart people are you? I’m extremely smart. So why are you the one they send to fill my refrigerator? I’ve already made it clear to you that I don’t do that. You mean by not answering my question when I asked you before? Exactly. What would be wrong with filling my refrigerator? Nothing, except that I don’t do it. Why not? you’re the one they sent to change my lightbulbs. Are you looking to get smacked? Can you smack hard? She came over and smacked me. It was hard. While my ears rang I thought about high intelligence and simple tasks. The most intelligent individual I had met in recent years — or so it seemed to me, a poor judge, but she could carry off stunning calculations and do those curious and unnecessary gymnastics with the number pi — had the position of polishing the shoes of the dead, if the dead were in fact wearing shoes. Clearly, I don’t mean just any dead. I mean those who, through dealings with our organization, had become dead, or almost. The latter fell into the category of the near-dead and their shoes were polished too. Once, admittedly in one of my more casual moments, I held up the leg of a member of this category so that I could look at something about my hair in the reflection I hoped might be produced. Extra to the fact that the reflection wasn’t much good, it was at that moment, as I was peering at the shoe, that the individual died. I know this because the shoe polisher, still present, said, at that moment, 74 * 57 = 4,218, there he / she goes. Suddenly it struck me, really struck me, that I was going to go. I’m sorry for being rude, I said to the young woman with the limp and the high cheekbones. I’m not sorry for smacking you, she said.