William Vollmann - The Royal Family

Yeah, I know, said Tyler, happy not to be attacked for one moment. Sometimes I search for hidden assets. Let’s say a divorced husband sets up a Caribbean bank account. He gets one shot at hiding it. We get fifty shots a year at finding it. Guess who wins? And yet I have to say that they haven’t found us yet; we could start over somewhere…

What do you mean, us? You think you and I are good enough or brave enough to leave the world for our Queen? I don’t see you leaving that fine apartment of yours unless you get busted by Internal Revenue or Consumer Affairs. I know I don’t have the guts.

But—

But your point’s well taken. The Queen could disappear anytime. If she wants to. Does she want to? You’re the one dickin’ her. Why don’t you ask her?

You know how she is.

Don’t worry about her then, the pedophile said, and suddenly Tyler began to feel Smooth’s replies leading him on toward something, good or bad he couldn’t tell yet, like the long thick line of San Francisco lights in the foggy blue night as he came over the Golden Gate Bridge from Sausalito. Whatever you and I know, she knows better.

So you’re not worried at all?

Did your envious ears hear what I said or not? Everybody worries in his own way, Henry.

Well, that’s a beautiful Hungarian proverb, but let me ask you something, said Tyler, swallowing hard and staring into Dan Smooth’s eyes, because in his profession he sometimes encountered what he called “dead-on reads,” meaning people who were absolutely unassailably lying: people whose eyes flicked away or people who blinked too often, or people who answered every single question when the questions dealt with fifteen seconds out of somebody’s day six months before. Smooth was lying about something, or at the very least withholding something. Tyler leaned forward, raised his voice, and said: Dan, is there anything about this whole situation that you know and the Queen doesn’t?

Cross my heart, no, said Smooth, his eyes moving away.

Is there anything you know about Domino that I ought to know?

Sometimes people just don’t want to talk to you, now, do they, Henry? Smooth chuckled. It’s like pulling teeth, isn’t it?

Don’t forget whom you’re talking to. I can check up on you. I can get your tax return for Christ’s sake.

What are you going to do, Henry? Put me through the polygraph? Now there’s a guy down the street who does that. We cross paths. My understanding is you can pop a couple of valium and you can just cruise right through it.

It’s something about Domino, isn’t it?

That Domino, she’s a crack monster. She—

Oh, fuck it, said Tyler.

Henry, I’m sorry. Domino’s balling your brother.

In the winter night they reached OAK HILLS, whose letters were tricked out in spurious gold on the wall. Steel gates slid apart. John eased the car down the glistening black circle studded with streetlamps whose Christmas lights had been formed into alien coil-springs of luminosity. This “gated community,” no community at all, but rather a monument to the rich’s justified fear of the poor, was actually, like the subatomic spaces between electrons, empty and cold. A manhole cover was shining. John drove slowly between grey houses whose black roofs loomed. Occasionally a string of lights blinked idiotically in some window (pathetically, I should say, pathetic as the mobile swinging in the upper window of the police station’s Juvenile Divison at Sixteenth and Mission. Can you believe what the mobile said? I swear that it said LOVE!), but most of the time John and Celia could see no electrons at all because the householders, rich, lonely old empty-nesters, had flown to Phoenix, Lubbock or Salem to inflict themselves on their children and bribe their grandchildren with presents.

My cousin lived here for two years, and she stayed with us, Celia said vaguely.

All right, said John. Where do we park? The friggin’ driveway’s full.

John?

What?

Did you hear what I said?

Oh, so it’s going to be one of those nights. What’s your brother’s name again? I like to know a name when I see a face.

Donald. And my sister is Leslie, but she won’t be there. I’ve told you about Donald so many times…

Yeah, that’s right. Lock the back door on your side.

Do you even care about my cousin?

What’s her name?

Ashley.

Point her out when we go in.

John, weren’t you listening? I told you that Ashley wasn’t going to be here.

Well, then it isn’t relevant information, Ceel. You forgot the bottle of wine. It’s right there on the back seat.

They still own me for another three years, Celia’s father was saying. I’m expecting that they’ll kick me out right before they’d be obligated to honor my pension, but then at least they’ll have to give me some kind of retirement package because it’s an involuntary separation.

Oh, don’t worry, Dad, said Celia, longhaired, in white slacks. I’m sure you’re going to go the full distance.

How much vacation did you say you had? John asked Celia’s brother.

Six weeks.

Interesting.

Are you interested? the brother said challengingly.

Very interested, said John. I have four weeks, but I never get to take it.

I heard that Sis completely arranges her vacation time around you, and that’s why we hardly ever get to see her. Is that true?

Why don’t you ask her? was John’s curt reply.

John, this wine looks extremely expensive, Celia’s mother said. Are you sure we’re worth it?

Positive, said John.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen this brand. Where does it come from? Is it French?

Well, there’s the label. Do you see it? It’s in French, so—

John, don’t!

Don’t what, Ceel? Your mother asked me a question, and I not only answered her, I proved my case. What’s wrong with that? Are you going to tell me I was patronizing?

John, there’s something I’ve always wondered, interposed Celia’s mother. People talk about good wine and bad wine. But I’ve always wondered how you can tell the difference, if you don’t go by price alone.

Two things to look for, John explained. First of all, the wine needs to taste like fruit. It can taste dry or even bitter, but that fruit taste has to be there.

He’s kind of a know-it-all, Donald said into his father’s ear.

And secondly, it has to have a steady aftertaste that stays on your palate.

He kind of talks like a fruity television commercial.

Oh, I see, said Mrs. Keane. Well, I always wondered, and now I know.

Tell John about your new TV, Donald, said Celia.

What? Why should I?

Because he’s interested, silly.

Is he really?

Very interested, said John.

A little shyly, Donald said: Well, John, I have direct TV at my place.

How big is your screen? asked John.

Fifty-four inches, said Donald. The screen here is only forty-eight inches. But watch this.

He squeezed a button on his parents’ remote control, and an action movie appeared on the screen, with a winking blinking menu embedded in the protagonist’s head. A person was hurting another person until blood came.

If you scroll down, Donald explained, you can hear the special effects on the ceiling speakers— but no one is being quiet, he concluded with a sudden glare.

And what do you do with your six weeks of vacation? John asked.