Laird Hunt - The Impossibly

When the three weeks were over, I went to the southwest gates of the public gardens and hid behind a bitter orange tree. It was a small tree with dark green foliage and large inedible oranges, meaning the top half of me would not be visible to anyone approaching or leaving, was my theory. The tree was off to one side of the gates near a pair of overfilled trash bins. As I stood there, someone came over and threw something into one of them. My irritation at this gesture (whatever it was had simply bounced off the top of one of the bins, dislodging, as it did so, several other items, all of which fell at my feet) was quickly replaced by a sense of anxiety (he had walked away) that this had been the individual I was waiting for. Or hiding from. Why was I hiding? Hiding was better. I had had some of my greater successes because of hiding, or related to hiding. But did that apply in this case? Surely, simply, it was better to play it safe. I had “waited” before and paid the consequences. Having thought that through, I decided it hadn’t been him, as the individual in the blurred photograph was clearly pretty large (I mean fat) and this individual hadn’t been. A moment later, when I took into consideration the possibility that this individual, like myself, might recently have lost weight, possibly during the process of a disaffirmation, one that had later been overturned, this decision was in doubt again. I momentarily stepped out from behind the tree to see if I could spot him, but couldn’t. For about five seconds I was at a loss, then it occurred to me (and I have no idea why this seemed plausible) that he might return, at which point I could, calling out from behind the tree, tactfully ask him if he had recently lost a great amount of weight, or, depending on my mood, and if no one else more likely had come along, leave the tree and follow him.

The life of the investigator involves a lot of waiting, as does that of the small-time gangster. One waits (or hides) and one thinks and usually this thinking is not much. As I stood there in the semidark behind the orange tree I thought, more or less, nice oranges, nice thick foliage, nice dark leaves. I thought, fucker for knocking the trash onto the ground and for possibly being my killer and, I thought, I was happier when I was fat. Fat and younger so I could handle said fat. Images of myself — fat and younger; wearing a cakeseller’s apron; wearing sunglasses; standing on stage singing opera; looking fat in shorts. Now I am old and where there was once honest fat there are dubious folds. This has nothing to do with my being old. This doesn’t matter. Someone approached. I stopped thinking. It was a woman. My heart went whomp! then I started thinking again. About the woman I had loved and lost and maybe, for a short while, found again. Then the oranges. Then my life as an organic asset, certain aspects to do with pay. Also with screwing up. Then I thought about hiding. About wearing infrared goggles and standing in the dark. Then about moving through the dark. Once I hid in someone’s closet, someone known to carry two guns. She fell asleep, then I came out carrying a hammer. I was convinced I was dead for a time, early in my career. There was even some evidence, not to mention one or two minor out-of-body experiences, and it was during this period that I first got it in mind that I would like to carry out an investigation and even went so far as to set myself up with an office, a friend who was willing to work as my secretary, and one or two clients. For health reasons, however, I was soon obliged to return to work for the firm with which I had been previously engaged. To say anything is to complicate it. Like darkness. To remember anything. My boss in the early days liked trains. I had several friends. One in particular. We drank a lot. Clearly, here, I was remembering. Or for-getting — I am always confused which. My dream came up. I considered rearranging it to make it absolutely clear at the next telling that at the beginning my character had had no idea of the outcome. So that in a sense he, I, knew without knowing it. Which seemed a great luxury. And also utterly outside the realm of possibility. I said this out loud. I smelled something. It didn’t smell good. It was me. Then birds began making noise and I realized that a considerable interval of time had passed. I came out from behind the tree and sat on a bench. I sat there for another interval. I stood. I walked in through the garden gates. I met the woman with the mask only now she wasn’t wearing one.

The next day I mostly spent in bed, although one or two things happened. One of these things was that the young woman with the cheekbones knocked on my door. She was quite a mess, had been crying even, and when I let her in she wouldn’t speak for a few minutes. Bastards, she finally said. She paced around the room a little. In her agitation, her limp seemed more pronounced. It occurred to me, though I didn’t get a chance to suggest it, that she might be able to get one of those special shoes. None of this is real is it? she said, cutting off my thoughts. What do you mean? I said. None of this, what we’re doing, right now — it’s not real. I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m talking about this, for example, she said, pulling out her gun. It’s got blanks in it and that stupid little knife of yours is plastic. No it’s not. Yes, it is. Don’t point that thing at me. She did. She fired. Then, when it was dark, I went back to the restaurant in hopes of finding the guy with the face and some explanation for the previous evening, but he wasn’t there. Neither was the accordion player or the kid with the guitar. Or at least I was fairly certain they weren’t. I put it that way, because there was a guy playing the accordion and another playing the guitar, but I was pretty sure they weren’t the same ones as before. Whoever they were, they played pretty well, though, and I stood there for a number or two. I would have stood there longer, swaying slightly, feeling reasonably content, but the waiter started shooting me censorious looks. So I tipped them and started to leave, or did leave, got the hell out, away from everything, went to the beach, took a swim, floated on my back, and looked up at the dark sky, but then the guy in the photograph walked in the door. You will ask, rightfully, how, given the condition of the photograph, I could have been so sure that the fat guy I was seeing was the one in the photograph, and the truth is, even though it was him, and I soon confirmed this, when I saw him I wasn’t entirely sure. Is this a photograph of you, fat man? I said a couple of minutes later, after he had sat down and ordered and they had brought some of his food. Fat man? he said. I made to wave the photograph around in front of his face, then, remembering the regrettable scene at the travel agency, set it down next to him and contented myself with tapping it once or twice. I’m sorry, I said, for any present or imminent rudeness on my part. Fat man? he said. I apologized some more. After a certain amount of this, he took out a pair of glasses, put them on, and looked at the photograph. Yes, that is me, he said. Where did you get it? I told him where. He told me he had a sister who lived in my building and that about a month ago he had visited her. As he was leaving, she had handed him a stack of photos from an excursion they had taken together — clearly he had dropped one of them on his way out. You mean to tell me you’re not an assassin. A what? Because you can tell me if you are — I won’t do anything, I just want to know. So if I were an assassin and had it in mind to assassinate you, you wouldn’t do anything about it? That’s right. Then why do you have a knife? How do you know about the knife? You mentioned it. No I didn’t. He took a drink. Do you mind if I pat you down? I said. The waiter had been standing near the table for some time and now he came forward and put his hand on my elbow. I’m going to make a phone call and we’ll see if your story holds up, I said over my shoulder, because the waiter, quite a sturdy individual, was now leading me away. And maybe I’ll just pay a little visit to your “sister” while I’m at it, fat man. By this time I was out of the restaurant, lying on the sidewalk, and it was the waiter who answered. Please do, he said, but be very nice, she’s a friend of mine.