William Vollmann - The Royal Family

I hope you brought your own toothpaste, John said. I remember you don’t like the toothpaste that I use.

The next morning, John’s friend, his desk phone’s amber button, winked at him most mirthfully. — What is it now, Joy? he said.

Mr. Singer would like to see you as soon as possible, said Joy’s voice.

OK. Tell him I’ll be there in five minutes.

What about your two o’clock with Mr. Brady?

How long does Singer need me for?

He didn’t say. Probably some quickie kind of thing.

Fine, Joy. Where am I meeting Brady?

At Spoletto’s, reservation in your name.

And that’s at two o’clock?

Let me see. Oh, John, can you hold one second? There’s a call on the other —

OK. Thank you, Joy, he said, hanging up. He made a note on his memo pad: Call

Mom tonight. —

He added: Flowers for Celia. —

… and crossed it out.

Celia had returned home. (Post Street was closed off, the San Francisco coroner’s white van parked among the police cars.) She dreamed that John was searching to buy Chinese figurines for a girl he knew. She woke up knowing that this meant Irene. She went to Grace Cathedral during her lunch hour and lit a candle for Irene, praying that the dead woman and John would be together in Heaven. She wept when she did it. That night when she lay down in her bed, she dreamed of the smell of fresh-baked bread.

The Vietnamese woman led Tyler into a room with a mattress, a chair, and a bathtub. She said: Thirty-five dollars is only for shower and back rub, okay? You want tea or coffee?

Tea.

Okay. Get undressed. I come back.

Tyler took off his shoes and lay down on the mattress. When she came in with the tea, she stopped dead, covered her gaping mouth with one hand, and cried: Why you not undress? What you want?

I just want to talk.

Your friend wait for you in lobby! she cried scornfully. Why you no talk with him?

I want to talk with you.

She squatted down beside the mattress, staring at him. Then she laughed bitterly and went out. He heard her yelling in Vietnamese with the other ladies.

After a while another woman came in. — What you want? she said.

To talk to you.

Why?

I’m lonely. I want to be next to a woman, just talking.

Thirty-five dollah not enough for talk, she sneered.

Okay. How much more do you need?

Twenty dollah.

And then you’ll sit next to me?

Okay.

He gave her twenty dollars more and she sat down on the edge of the bed with her legs open so he slid his hand in and felt the paper menstrual shield through her panties. He caressed the insides of her thighs for the half-hour she gave him, while she tapped her foot boredly. This reach of his had been the right card to play. As soon as he’d touched her, the suspicion on her face drained away, leaving a hard residue of contempt and weariness. He was safe now.

What do you want to know? she said.

I don’t want to know anything. Just talk to me.

What’s your job?

I travel.

You rich?

Sometimes. No.

At that, she lost interest. Better and better.

Have you seen much war? he said.

Much much.

What do you think about it?

She shrugged. — I think war is very good. Because many fight, many suffer, but then one side get what they want.

Do you have brothers and sisters?

I don’t want to think about them. I don’t even want to think about myself.

Are you married? he said.

Two times. Not now.

You lonely?

Sometimes. Everybody wants love. — She regarded him piercingly. We were all born naked. Why not get naked when we want?

He understood her pefectly, but figured that would have cost him another twenty or thirty at least. Brady had given him one last wad for expenses. In his business, of course, one could not always present receipts. Some of the quittances which Brady had seen him counting he’d filled out and signed himself. That was normal. And if he kept this money now instead of giving it to people such as the Vietnamese woman, Brady would never know. Or, more likely, Brady would understand, even approve; probably Brady had factored in a little graft as part of Tyler’s wages, or let’s say a bonus to which he had every right as long as he did the job. He felt sorry for this girl. Just as a freshly shaved pudendum, to which the stubble has just begun to return, resembles in texture a squid’s most delicately suction-studded tentacles, so his own thoughts, yearnings and veriest gratitudes, shaved by expediencey though they were, had begun to grow out upon his soul in a boneless sea-creaturely fashion bereft of the laws which two-legged dignity must worship. Sure, he was sorry. But he felt sorry for everybody. He never let that get in the way of his work. (A Sicilian lawyer he’d met had three briefcases, one for twelve-hour jobs, one for twenty-four-hour jobs, and one for thirty-six-hour jobs. This man’s best pleasure was reading Il Sicilio, then wiping his glasses and crying: The Italian government is very unfair! — After that he smiled, ate a doughnut, and forgot about the unfairness. Tyler was like that with his sadness.)

I already got naked with the Queen, he said, watching her.

I don’t know any queen. Are you a cop?

I did her in the parking garage around the corner. She took it up the ass.

Why what for you think I care about parking garage? she shouted. You think I have money to drive? You think I park my big big car in parking garage of the Queen? You stupid little cop! I’m gonna tell madame on you.

What’s the Queen’s first name? I want to buy her a birthday present.

That Africa who cares for her first name all just bad African people those goddamned Negroes always try to hurt me in the street…

Tyler gave up. He rose and said goodbye, tipping her five, then strolled around the corner to a phony Chinese restuarant he knew which had just translated itself into a barbeque place. He wasn’t hungry, and the sauce didn’t smell very good. The place was empty. The manager of the former Chinese place recognized Tyler right away and came running up to him and said to the new manager: Hey, you gotta meet Henry Tyler! He’s a character!

I don’t have time to meet characters, said the new manager.

The old manager hung his head.

What’ll you have, friend? said the new manager.

Barbeque, said Tyler wearily.

The cook, who appeared to be the new manager’s wife, brought him a paper plate dripping with grease and bulging with half-frozen, half-burned chicken covered with ketchup, while the old manager stood by tapping his foot.

How’s business? he said to the old manager.

Booming, replied the new manager.

Tyler took a bite of barbeque and his teeth struck ice.

How is it? said the cook anxiously.

Very good, said Tyler.

She smiled with relief.

All three of them were watching him eat. With considerable effort he finished the first piece of chicken. There were five pieces left.

How come you don’t use your hands? said the old manager. If you use your fork like that you’re only gonna get it all over your shirt.

Tyler ate the second piece and said: Does the Queen of the Whores ever come in here?

I seen her sometimes, said the old manager indifferently. She’s just a stuck-up bitch.

What does she look like?

Oh, about five foot two, you know, melons kinda like this, wears high heels and a tight mini, you know the drill… Somebody said she calls herself Africa. How’s the chicken?

Great, said Tyler, picking up the third piece.

How come you don’t use your other hand?