Laird Hunt - The Impossibly

I told him I did.

Then I asked him how long he had been sitting there.

Quite a while.

From where I stood, I could see that the intercom was still on.

Did you …?

Yes, everything.

About the cataracts?

It’s quite a nice story. Your relative lived a very handsome life.

Yes, I said.

Yes, he said. I liked the story about the war, and the military plane, sitting next to the prince and seeing the leaning tower from the air. Have you ever seen it?

No, I said.

I have, he said. It’s a nice tower, you stand on a green lawn and look at it, but it’s not as nice as it would be from the air — blue sky above and around, brown and yellow fields below. And then descending at dusk on the airfield lit by gas lamps to dine with the prince while bombs went off against a backdrop of thunder.

Those were different days, he said.

Yes.

He wasn’t lying, was he, your relative?

I don’t know.

Because they do lie, not always but sometimes.

He was looking at me. I could see his eyes now. They were a very pretty green.

You don’t recognize me, do you? he said.

No, I said.

I don’t mean to imply that you should. I just find it curious — a curious result.

Result of what?

My name is Green.

Mr. Green?

No it’s not, never mind, a little joke, don’t call me that.

We stood there a moment. That is to say that I stood there and he sat there.

Can I help you with something? I said.

Yes, you can.

I told him that perhaps, as it was a business call, we should go into my office, that that would be more appropriate. I could sit behind my desk and he could sit in the client’s chair. I could take notes on what he had to say. I had a notepad and a very nice pen.

All right, he said. He smiled as he said this and his smile, like his eyes, was very pretty, despite his lips, which were not pretty; I could not understand how they could participate in something as pretty as the smile they helped to compose.

I didn’t recognize him at all.

We began to walk into my office. I motioned for him to precede me.

Please, I said. After you.

You are very polite. I am happy to be in the hands of an investigator with some manners.

He stepped ahead of me. We moved forward. And as we did so, strange to relate, it seemed to me that I passed through him, that he paused a moment and I continued and slipped straight through him, that, in fact, I continued to move, straight through what was to be his chair and through my desk and through my chair and the wall behind it and across the courtyard and out into the open air above the dark street where I stopped and floated for a time.

When I turned, however, I found that I had misperceived my situation, and was sitting in my chair, pen in hand, notebook open in front of me. Beside the notebook, several pages of which were filled with writing, was a card that read, “Mr. Smith,” and gave an address — the address to which I had followed my previous client’s “husband.” As for my client, having presumably said all he wished to, he had seen fit to take his leave.

I found, now that he had gone, that I was very tired, and even though it was late and I would soon be expected for my shift at the transactions firm, it seemed hard to move. It was pleasantly warm in my office and the yellow bulbs gave off the kind of soft, inadequate light that lends itself to lucubration and dozing. Aware, then, that I was in my element, I depressed the intercom switch and said, Are you there?

Yes.

You’re back from your little stroll.

Yes.

Don’t let anyone in.

There is a woman here to see you.

Make an excuse. Send her away.

I switched off the intercom and, leaning back in my chair, let out a sigh, took up my notebook, and read the following:

[Client]: I have a story too. It’s not coming to me right this second, but it will.

We sit. I ask the client for details of the business matter he has come to share with me.

[Client]: Ah, here it is, I knew it would come. It is of a slightly older vintage than the one you related, and while it does not involve princes and airfields, I think you will find it makes for agreeable listening.

Client’s story summarized: A great-great-uncle or aunt or client, having fallen in with a certain group, burns rose at midnight and waits up until dawn for ghost of rose to appear.

[Me]: And? [Client]: It didn’t. Or so it seemed to my relative, for a number of weeks, months, or even years — the account isn’t clear — and then one morning at breakfast, on a sun-flooded table, an iris, very pale, appeared and began slowly revolving, all through breakfast. [Me]: An iris? [Client]: Yes, strange isn’t it? The ghost of an iris for a burned rose. My relative took to burning all kinds of flowers after that. Whole bouquets. But it is not clear whether there were any more apparitions. [Me]: I see.

Client falls silent. Starts to hum. Pretty green eyes. Somehow familiar. I offer him a drink. We drink. Toast relatives. I ask him if the story he has told me is true.

[Client]: Yes. [Me]: I see. [Client]: But there were no witnesses. Or none have come forward yet. [Me]: The victim had been bludgeoned to death? [Client]: So our sources tell us, but we haven’t been able to confirm. None of our people have seen the body. It is, you understand, a very delicate matter. [Me]: Delicate in what sense? [Client]: In all senses. [Me]: Where is the body? [Client]: We aren’t sure. [Me]: But you are sure the victim was one of your firm’s employees? [Client]: No. [Me]: So you want me to find out if it was.

Client doesn’t answer. I ask client if any employees are missing. Client says it would be impossible to say.

[Me]: You mentioned sources. How about some names?

Client gives names, places of business, phone numbers: Mr. Jones, Ms. Green, Ms. Krumpacher. Settle on fee. Reasonable. Client looks at watch. Says he has to leave. Leaves. Room is suddenly filled with flowers. Very pale. Slowly rotating. Whole bouquets.

By this time (I had been rather slow in reading), it was quite late and high time I left my office and made my way over to the transactions firm to see what they had for me that evening. Before leaving, however, I carefully copied the above-mentioned names and phone numbers onto a fresh sheet of the notepad, tore the sheet out of the book, put the book in the desk drawer, closed the drawer, locked the drawer, pocketed the key (I thought), went out and had a short conversation with my secretary, who I found in high spirits (the new client had tipped him generously), left him the names and numbers with instructions to set up appointments, felt for my pulse, couldn’t find it, asked my secretary to take it, was told it was eighty, asked him if he was lying, watched him smile, shrugged, then smacked him, gently, then left.

And while it had been my intention to mull over certain aspects of the new case, especially those aspects that (even if only hypothetically) impinged upon my own person, before I could begin, before, in fact, I could begin even to be aware of my passage, i.e., down the hall, down the stairs, out the front door, along the crowded streets, then streets plural, I found myself at home, sitting on my couch with a scotch and soda in my hand.

I took a sip.

This was scotch from a good bottle, not any bottle I owned. For a moment, then, I had the pleasant thought that the entire night had slipped by, that not only had I misplaced my passage home, but also my passage to the firm, some light banter in the copy room, a welcome dose of exegesis from my fleshy friend or one of the more senior transactionists, an assignment, perhaps on one of the rooftops this time, or near a furnace, or outside the city in the wetlands, or on one of the many dark plains; at any rate, a fine night’s work, it occurred to me, might have passed, been completed, been achieved, after which I might have purchased (or even been awarded) this fine scotch.