Laird Hunt - The Impossibly

The old men, for their part, fell to telling me their dreams. Their dreams were not so bad, but I would have to seriously doctor them up to make them interesting enough to include here. Instead I will tell you one of my own. Because of its narrative elements and the fact that it crossed detective and ghost story genres, it was something of a success when, at my insistence that I have a turn, I told it to the old men. It helped that we were sitting on one or two barely lit benches and that the park around us, with its winding paths and heavy foliage, was lit everywhere with small round lights, so that, as one of the old men said, you never knew whether wolf or lamb or some unpleasant combination of the two was going to step out of it. Actually, I said that. And the response I got was not so positive. Shut up and tell your dream, they said. I cleared my throat and did so.

I am an inspector in an almost silent black-and-white world working to track down a noted member of “the resistance.” Not for the first time, I catch up with him and unload my handgun. The bullets fly out in long thin slivers of shining lead that the wind distorts. I tell my colleagues, when they arrive, that I’m sure I hit him. They shake their heads. This scene repeats itself. One evening everyone is out making a sweep for him in a warehouse across town. On a hunch I go back to his place of work, a book shop where he hasn’t been seen for weeks. And sure enough, he’s there. I see him through the window, puttering around the shop — a tall man in yellow light. I call my colleagues then pull my gun and close in. Just as I am about to enter, however, I register that he keeps repeating the same movements. And then I know. My colleagues arrive and we go in. I touch one of the books. He vanishes. He’s been keeping us busy chasing him, I say. He’s been dead the whole time.

When I finished there was a silence, or a relative one — a couple of the old men suffered from that condition which makes one’s teeth, it is unfortunate, clack together. I am happy to say that I was not one of them. Although I’m not too proud to confess that my lips sometimes make movements I don’t command them to and that my hands, on occasion, shake a little. Also, my skin, from when I was fat, hangs somewhat inharmoniously and is very rough in places, and I am prone to considerable stiffness in the lower back, which makes me, at times, very slow and decrepit seeming indeed. Furthermore, I look old. In and of itself this would not be a bad thing. I actually like the look of the old, and not just the pretty, if slightly watery, eyes. For instance, I am inclined to think that the somewhat overpronounced veins on the backs of my hands are quite beautiful, and that the blunt, crooked aspect of my fingers is not without a certain charm. Sad to say that most don’t share my opinion. And even if they do, even if they call you sir or madam and pay you compliments, they are still usually inclined to think you are, by dint of being old, somewhat bonkers. But my dream. Someone came up with, not bad. Another said, yeah, yeah. Someone else said, you could make a movie out of that. The discussion turned to movies. One old guy brought up a movie where a man goes out west, is given a paper flower, gets shot, and spends the rest of the movie dying. Some of those who had seen it claimed he was dead before the movie started. There was a general murmur of assent. I like cowboys, I said. Well this guy wasn’t a cowboy, he was just some dead guy who got shot. There was a brief argument. Then a silence. Then someone asked me how my investigation was coming along. What investigation? I said. We’ve all heard about it, another said. I looked around. Everyone I could see was nodding. Because of the travel agent? I asked. And the restaurant. I heard it from my wife, she’s one of the old women. How do they know about it? Oh, they all know about it. Well, do any of you have any tips? Yeah, don’t speculate. How am I supposed to do that? I don’t know. Great, thanks, what else? Consider the evidence. What evidence? I mean the clues. I’ve hardly got any. Isn’t your three weeks about up? They were. In fact, the next night I stood waiting by the garden’s southwest gates.

But in the meantime — it was still early — I went up into the old city to see if I could find any old women to talk to. I used the walk to think some more about my dream and about what the old men had said about it. The fact that they were all aware of my investigation, seemed somehow tied to my dream, as if the dream of an investigation had merged with the speculation surrounding the real one. I wasn’t entirely sure, having formulated this last, what I had meant by it, but was strangely pleased for a moment, as in some small way I’d made a breakthrough. As soon as I was over that feeling, I went back to the dream itself. Upon waking from it I’d been very interested by the notion that the whole thing had hinged on a hunch, largely unexplained, and I had lain in my bed thinking about how, in my real investigation, I could turn this to my advantage. As I lay there thinking about it, calling to mind bits and pieces of the dream, no doubt adding patches and embroidering connective elements onto it, I remembered or created the phrase, he’s been dead for weeks, and this too seemed to have some resonance. It also occurred to me to wonder whether my character, as it were, when supposedly acting on his hunch, had known all along how it would end. I don’t know, I thought. And still don’t. I can assure you, however, that at that point I didn’t know (or was unaware that I knew) how my investigation would end and, properly speaking, still don’t — I am waiting. I wait here. With all the fresh bulbs in the apartment burning. The tiny dagger on the table in front of me. Waiting for the man in the photograph to arrive.

And then I ran into the guy with the face and neck problem and the woman who had blindfolded me. They were standing or walking arm in arm beneath a trellis hung heavily with wisteria. I can’t remember if they were coming toward me, or I was coming toward them. It is a small point, perhaps, but over the course of the investigation, as pathetic as it was, I developed the habit of considering such details and attempting to make some sense of them. Likely, it seems to me, it was the former, as I often pause — and am often bumped into from behind because I do it pretty abruptly — and also because when I remember this part, I remember an absurd amount of motion in the area of his face and of her bosom. This perceived motion, however, may derive from faulty memory and my limp, not to mention my fairly poor night vision. At any rate, both of them stopped or started — I either stopped or stood still. Oh, it’s you, one of them said. You’re the woman who blindfolded me, I said. And you’re the one I caught with his hands in my underwear drawer, she said. Tut, tut, the man with the fucked-up face said. Then he asked me, presumably because she was holding up one of those masks that have a lot of feathers and a handle on them, how I had recognized her. The voice, professor, I said. Of course, he said, it’s just I hadn’t realized you were close enough to hear us. Well I was and, incidentally, who are you? I said. Me or her? Both, while we’re at it. If you can’t recognize me I’m not going to tell you, he said. If you let me put a blindfold on you I’ll tell you who I am, she said. Why, is there something wrong with your face too? Tut, tut, don’t be rude, said the guy. What’s this tut, tut crap? I said. I understand you’re under a strain so I’ll give you five seconds to apologize for your comportment. Likely there were large individuals in close proximity, and there was definitely his gun and maybe also hers, but mainly I was feeling a little fragile, so I said it — sorry. Good, he said. We all stood there a minute. There were night birds calling and the sound of motors and car horns and the air was full of the scent of wisteria. Look, do me a favor, I’m not getting anywhere, tell me something, anything, I said. You’ll learn more tomorrow, maybe even tonight. Just tell me something now, one thing. All right, there will be witnesses. Where? At the scene. Why? It’s a new procedure — straight from the records department. The records department? I said. Yes, he said. I don’t get it. Get what? What that means or why you told me that. He shrugged. So that’s it? That’s all you’ll tell me? Yes. Well, fuck you. They looked at me then at each other then started to walk off. Hey, hold on a second, I said. But they didn’t. And I couldn’t blame them. As a matter of fact when I bumped into her again a little later, alone this time, I apologized without being asked to. She lifted her mask high enough for me to see her mouth, smiled, said, follow me, then lowered it again.