Laird Hunt - The Impossibly

Thanks, he wasn’t my hero, I said. You’re welcome, she said. So you didn’t participate in the burning? I didn’t say that. No, you didn’t. Would you like to cross-examine me? Okay — why the shelves? The shelves? The objects and the shelves. I have no idea, the concept either came from the Central Job Committee or maybe she thought it up herself, anything else? Yes — why didn’t you haul me in as soon as you knew I hadn’t gone through with my assignment? Our instructions were to determine whether or not you were working alone. What did you determine? That you were. Well, anyway that’s true. It’s all true. No it’s not. Yes it is. Where did she go afterward? Nowhere. What do you mean? I mean she didn’t do very well with her next couple of assignments so she was disaffirmed. Was she recuperated? I don’t think so. Of course, this was just her version of the story, even if it did, in certain details, correspond with other versions I had had, but it still wasn’t definitive, as I didn’t trust her, for whatever reason, never had. Or didn’t want to. Maybe I did trust her, but didn’t want to and was confused by that. I was certainly confused, but was still in hopes that the next day, when the three weeks were up, I would be able to move forward with my investigation, which after all was the important, even if somewhat laughable, matter at hand. Anyway I don’t believe you, I said. I told them you wouldn’t, she said. And what did they say? They said to ask you what you believe in. What I believe in? Yes. What the hell kind of question is that? I’m just the one asking it. Well, I’m not sure. They said you would say that. They’re clearly very well-informed. Yes, they are. What do you believe in, Smarty? A certain unexamined measure of synchronicity. Well that’s very clever. Thank you. And is that what this is, our meeting after all these years? No, and anyway, I said unexamined. Yeah, yeah, so what is this? This was planned. And on that — she gave me another apple and showed me out — our discussion ended. At least until the next night.

But in the meantime, I slept then spent the day more or less waiting then went to the park and waited and worried that I’d missed my killer, but of course hadn’t, then went to the restaurant and saw the man in the photo, who in fact had had nothing to do with my case until they learned I had found the photograph of him — it was planted evidence for another affair in the building — and so sent him to eat at the restaurant, correctly reasoning I would find my way there in hopes of having the previous evening’s exercise explained. There, I received the misinformation about the sister, which I followed up on, still, of course, under the impression that my killer was possibly the fat man in the restaurant — I’m not sure why they didn’t just change the photograph — then got conked on the head, woke in front of the mirror, walked out, made a phone call, and heard the word, bingo. I won’t, I said. Yes, you will, the voice said. I want to talk to someone. You are. Someone besides you. I’m the only one. Let me talk to the young woman. She doesn’t talk on the phone. This is just cheap, you guys are just trying to get economical. There was a silence then — investigation over — a dial tone.

Investigation over but not an account of all incidents relevant to it. There are a couple more. After replacing the receiver, I went back down the hall and knocked on the door. Almost immediately the young woman with the high cheekbones and slight limp answered it. Thanks, I have an incredible headache, I said. I’ve been working on my technique, she said. Is he in? No. Any idea when he’ll be back? He won’t be back. You over that real / not real stuff? Yes. Good, me too, do you have any kind of a gun? Of course I do. But you won’t give it to me. Why do you want one now? Because I want to get this over with as quickly as possible. Well, I’d like to help you, but the last time I allowed myself an instance of compassion, I got this bad leg and was temporarily disaffirmed. How long is temporary? About six hours. So they must like you. They do. So do I, I said. So I’ll give you a tip — hit a little to the right. That way you’ll be sure to achieve full unconsciousness in your subject. I winked. She looked at me. After I’d been struck and under for a while, I told her, I woke for a few minutes or seemed to and found myself lying rather unceremoniously on the floor. Several individuals were sitting at the small table and it seemed to me that they were complimenting me, and that their compliments were not at all trivial. I heard the words courage and rectitude used. And I discerned definite traces of sincerity in one or two of their utterances, and then I fell asleep again, or rather, went under again, and came to in front of the mirror. If that’s true, which I doubt, they were talking about another retired asset, she said. I knew you would say that, I said. I smiled. She smiled. I shook her hand and turned to leave, but she said, wait. She disappeared for a moment then came back with a very shiny multicolored piece of cloth. He told me to give this to you, she said. Thank you, I said. Then she put her hand on my chest, gave me a gentle shove, and shut the door. This shove made me think about seeing the somewhat unpleasant woman from my youth the night before by the garden gates. She had shoved me too. That made three shoves. She had also punched me and kissed me and said, good-bye. This was following a continuation of our conversation on the subject of belief. She had come to the gardens, she said, to see what I had learned from my wait and I said, nothing. Not too quick on the uptake are you? Apparently not. We walked a little. I told her I had thought some more about the belief thing and that while I hadn’t gotten anywhere I would keep thinking about it. I will too, she said. At least you have something you believe in. Synchronicity isn’t much. No, but it’s something. Yes, it is something, but not much more than nothing. That reminds me, I said. I know all about that, that was just something she made up, she said. I got it out of my pocket anyway and, hand cupped carefully, held it up in front of her. Does that look made up to you? I said. This was when she punched and kissed me. Actually, she didn’t kiss me. She hadn’t really even kissed me that evening in her bedroom. I don’t even know why I’m going on about her kissing me at all — I never liked her. Except to look at. She was nice to look at. Stop now, she said. I let my hand fall to my side, and whatever had or hadn’t been in it fall to the ground. And, it was interesting — after she had seen me to my apartment (the shove had occurred sometime before that), I kept hearing, over and over, the words, stop now. Which had a particular and unpleasant resonance then as well as later after the mirror, and certainly now. Good-bye, I said, to the young woman behind the closed door. Then, almost finished, as I was making my way back down the hallway, I thought, my eyes are deceiving me, then as quickly thought, no they aren’t, and bent over and picked up a photograph that was lying on the floor. When I was back in my apartment, I sat down under the handsome floor lamp and set the photograph on the table in front of me. Well, that’s overkill, I thought, but it’s not bad. Better, at any rate, than what I had just seen in the mirror. On the back of it, in the man with the fucked-up face’s willowy hand, was written the following note:

I wanted you to have this photograph of yourself. There was an error of sorts initially — the wrong photo was dropped in your hallway, or rather the right photograph was dropped in your hallway, but it wasn’t for you. You’ve concluded your investigation within the required time frame — congratulations. I’m sorry that in the end we had to resort to the mirror, but you will understand, no doubt, given the time constraint, that it was necessary. The blindfold is a gift, a touch of flash, of color — I remember how much pride you took in your appearance in the old days. But also, of course, by way of further explanation of the blindfold, you will remember those encounters in your, I mean one’s, childhood with both mirrors and blindfolds, and the ensuing, once their purpose was grasped, sense of departure and wonder. We are all of us, as children, investigators, sailing around in our imaginations like cups and saucers gone far out to sea. Never mind that cups and saucers out to sea would likely sink. The image is still rather pretty. At any rate, I expect my own letter soon and have decided I will request a similar investigation, and have no doubt many others will also follow this trail you have blazed, and that it might even become institutionalized. You were always highly capable, and what our mutual friend told you about those long ago events wasn’t true — you loved and were loved in return, perhaps even more fiercely. Adieu.