Laird Hunt - The Impossibly

The “sister” really was the sister and really was also a friend of the waiter’s, in fact she had once, she said, been on exceedingly friendly terms with him. She told me many things about her brother, including certain habits of his, one or two of which I could have done without knowing, and she confessed to me that she was a little worried about how much weight he had recently gained. He can lose it, I said. I used to be a little heavy and look at me now. This reassured her — that a gentleman such as myself, as she put it, could have lost a considerable amount of weight and still retained such grace of carriage and elegance. I smiled. She smiled back at me. We drank tea on a terrace that had a much better view through the black netting than mine did, and it was pleasant to recline in one of her comfortable chairs and to sip tea spiced with bergamot and to look at her face, which was not unhandsome. In fact, for a woman not of the absolutely earliest years she was quite stunning, and as we sat there and discussed her brother, a very “sweet man,” I began working up one or two compliments, which I never got the chance to use. Because the truth is, when I got home after leaving the restaurant and knocked on the only other door in the building, I found it open and the rooms it opened directly onto empty, or almost empty — in the smallest of them, beneath a single bare bulb, was a small wooden table and two chairs, in one of which sat the man with the troubled face.

I know who you are, I said. I know you do and it doesn’t matter, does it? No it doesn’t. So sit down. I sat. He asked me how I was doing. I told him that, frankly, I was a little confused, that I was having trouble with real and not real, and that my confusion was making me prone to outbursts and to regrettable comportment and unfortunate remarks. He said that the outbursts, etc., aside, this was probably a good thing — that it was good to be a little confused about real and not real when in the middle of carrying out an investigation. Am I carrying out an investigation? Absolutely — why wouldn’t you think so? For a moment I thought I’d met my killer’s sister. In this apartment? In the other room and on the terrace. But instead you met me. Yes. And because of it you’re confused. And a little irritated. Stop trembling, it’s all right. What’s all right? Your investigation is almost over. So that fat individual is going to kill me? What do you have against fat individuals? Nothing. Well it sounds like you have something against them. Could you just answer my question? That will be for you to determine. What will? That was the answer to your question. Well it looks a little fishy. Yes it does. I suppose you already know the outcome. Not at all. I looked at him to see if he was lying. I’m not lying, he said. Well then are you insulting my intelligence? I might be. Couldn’t you get that thing removed? Tut, tut, he said. If in fact he had ever said, tut, tut. I asked him if he had. Take it easy, he said. Was she lying to me? I asked. Was who? About what happened. You mean a few months back? It hasn’t just been a few months. Fine, it doesn’t matter, I know what you’re talking about. How long has it been? A while — not too long. But was she lying? I don’t know. And was it real? You’ll have to answer that. I thought about it. When I was finished thinking, or rather sitting there, as he had put it, trembling, I still didn’t have an answer, or only a hypothetical one — that event, the one about the paint and shelves and caged animals, had been real, but much of what followed had not. This was unsatisfying, and a bit too disturbing, so I turned my attention to another matter. Why was my second disaffirmation overturned? What? Why did they pull me out of the well? The boss ordered it. Which boss? You know which boss, you smacked her in the head with a shovel. I killed her. No, you gave her a severe concussion — when she woke up, she said, let him go. But what about all the blood at the crime scene? I don’t know anything about it. You’re lying. About which part? All of it. No, I’m not. I hit her with the shovel because she set me up. Everybody is aware of that, now let’s change the subject. I did kill her, I said, my voice rising, I know I did. End of discussion. So you’re saying she ordered that my disaffirmation be overturned — why, so she could set me up again, is all this another set-up? I won’t say another word about it. By the way the thing on his face was throbbing I could tell he meant it. I took a deep breath and said, okay, let’s talk about my investigation. Fine, he said. What the hell was that southwest gate of the public gardens thing? It was a clue. A clue? We sat there. In a small room off to the side a faucet had been left on and, nearby, someone was operating a jackhammer. A little daylight was coming in through one of the windows. He leaned forward and put his elbows on the table. Would you like to ask me anything else related to your investigation? Yes, why are we having this talk? Because I’m required to tell you something. Who is doing the requiring? Never mind. Okay, do I want to hear it? I don’t know, do you? I thought about it. There were many things I would have liked to hear: the sound of milk being steamed, a large bird beating its wings, thousands of goats wearing bells coming down out of the hills. Another thing I thought I would like to hear was the sound of my once-upon-a-time and forever-lost sweetheart coming into a room, her feet hitting softly against the cool tiles, I think they would be cool, her dress moving, it must be moving, against her legs. I would also, I thought, like to hear the words “you were highly capable” or even, and of course I mean in reference to me, “he was highly capable,” but I knew the individual sitting opposite me with his pretty eyes and awful condition, familiar, as he was, with my career, would not say them. I don’t really want to die, I said after a moment, aware, incidentally, that I had not answered his question. You expressed that sentiment volubly at your exit interview, he said. I know, I said, after a while I couldn’t think of anything else to say. He shrugged. I can’t say I blame you, he said. Really? I don’t say I approve of your approach to expressing yourself (I took it he was referring to the fact that I had broken several things, including one of my own fingers), but, to be somewhat honest, I’m not really looking forward to my own retirement either. How exactly could it be something to look forward to? Some might see it as a relief. This struck me as a pretty good answer. Have you gotten your letter? I asked him. Not yet, probably a few more years. I thought we were about the same age. Each asset’s career has a different trajectory. I see, I said. I thought of my career’s trajectory. I decided I would only use the word “plummet” in regards to it if I could also use the word “rocket.” This made me smile. Okay, tell me, I said. You’re ready? Yes. Your time is almost up. Is this real or not real? Real. How much time do I have? I can’t be any more specific. So you think I should just go home and wait for that fat individual to come and get me? I’m not sure your investigation is complete. You mean it’s not him? I didn’t say that — I said, I’m not sure your investigation is over. So you think I should keep going? Yes. And are you going to give me any more helpful clues? You have been given excellent clues, right from the start. So that’s what you’ve been doing, you’ve been giving me excellent clues? Some of them yes, others no, but the principle holds. What about hunches? You mean in reference to your dream? You’ve heard about the dream? We all have. Do you have an opinion? Not one I’d care to share. So are we done here? Almost. Almost how? You’re about to be given another clue. How about this time you just tell me what I’m supposed to think. You’re the one who wanted to undertake an investigation. I snorted. Some investigation, I said. He snorted back. Apparently in agreement. I say it that way because at that moment someone limped over and cracked me on the back of the head.