Уолтер Мосли - Odyssey

When Sovereign looked out the window the jet was gone and yet still in his mind. He wondered how long that image would stay with him: a gray winged aircraft in a fading blue sky.

“That’s the story, Mr. Selfridge. If the prosecutor wants to send me to prison I’ll be unhappy to go, but I probably will. My whole life, I now realize, has been under a blanket of darkness. Now that I can see it I will not turn away — from anything.”

The small white messenger’s left heel was pumping up and down. The nail of his left thumb grazed the skin of his lower lip. His eyes, black like his hair, peered into Sovereign’s words.

“You look like Jinx,” Monte said after a few moments’ gaze, “around the eyes.”

“That’s Eddie, right?”

“Yeah,” he replied with a smile.

“So what’s the verdict, Monte?”

“You got a good lawyer?”

“She’s a lawyer and she gives good advice even if I don’t take it.”

Monte Selfridge grinned with recognition, as if seeing himself in a highly polished mirror of ideas.

“Jinx did have a message,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“He wanted me to tell you that he loves you.”

These words brought up an odd feeling in Sovereign. For a moment he was at a loss, and then he realized that it was a question without words noodling through his mind, like a sightless worm.

The jiggle and swish of the front door sounded.

“Sovereign?” Toni Loam called.

“In here.”

She was wearing the ochre dress from that day. The hem made it only halfway down her thighs. She had strong brown legs that made Sovereign’s heart skip. It was a physical feeling that he wanted to deny. But it persisted.

“Oh,” she said. “I didn’t know you had company.”

Monte was seated on the white sofa while Sovereign had the red chair.

“This is Monte Selfridge,” Sovereign said, “an emissary from my brother, who, as you know, is a retired bank robber now living in Brazil, or thereabouts.”

“Oh,” she said again.

Toni walked across the room, up to Sovereign in the red chair, and seated herself on his lap.

His erection was instantaneous and insistent, a perfect counterpoint to the skipping of his heart.

“Hello, Mr. Selfridge,” Toni said, curling her left arm around Sovereign’s neck.

A musky, half-sweet odor came from her body, her torso. The dress and perfume, the aggressive seating, and even the huskiness of her voice were all designed as a message for Sovereign — a man realizing that he had lived alone in his mind for far too long.

“I think I’m interrupting,” the emissary said.

“No, not at all,” Sovereign replied. “I haven’t heard from my brother in the last thirty years. Now he’s called me twice in as many days and sent you. I won’t send away maybe my only connection to him.”

“That’s right,” Toni said. “We can all have dinner together. Sovereign said that we were having French.”

“Yes,” Sovereign added. “I insist.”

“Then at least you can allow me to take you two out to a place I know.”

The restaurant was on the third floor of a nondescript building on the Bowery — Chez Willomena la Terre. The aluminum elevator carried no more than four at a time, and the small dining room, with its zinc bar, had only nine tables — all of which were in use.

“How did you ever find this place?” Sovereign asked Monte after the salad made of Bibb lettuce with olive oil, garlic, and red wine dressing. “The food is great.”

“I’ve been coming here for seventeen years,” the mortal Mercury admitted. “My mom was friends with Willomena. Do you like it, Miss Loam?”

“The bread is good,” she said.

Her left hand was stroking Sovereign’s thigh under the table.

After coq au vin with escarole and scalloped potatoes, Monte ordered apple tarts and a bottle of cognac for the table.

The conversation up until that time had flowed easily back and forth between the diners. Toni liked to talk about her family and the people who lived in her mother’s building. She didn’t mention Lemuel, but Sovereign thought that he could tell when she skipped over a memory or a significant moment in a story that might have included her sometimes ex.

For his part James told about his capitalistic revolutionary career that spanned a more than twenty years, admitting that, in the end, it had probably been a misguided adventure.

“Sounds like a practicable idea to me,” Monte said. “I mean, somebody has to make the plans — and execute them.”

Monte was careful not to reveal anything about his work or clients. He acknowledged coming from Cleveland and going to school in Akron.

“I was good at languages but otherwise pretty poor in school,” he said. “That’s what brought me to South America in the end.”

After two snifters of cognac Sovereign was feeling warm and fuzzy.

“Tell me about my brother,” he asked their host.

“Jinx lives in the City of God,” Monte said, lifting his glass in a toast to his absent friend.

“What do that mean?” Toni asked in a different timbre than Sovereign was used to.

“A long time ago,” Selfridge answered, “Saint Augustine said that all hope was preordained, that those meant to go to heaven were fated from birth. No matter what they did in life all they had to do was confess at the end and they would be elevated to the heavenly choir.”

“Even murderers?” the girl asked.

“Worse,” Monte acknowledged. “You see, man thinks that he understands sin and evil but he doesn’t.”

“He don’t?”

“No. We are only infants in the eyes of heaven... or at least in the eyes of Augustine deciphering the will of the infinite. For him we were children, the progeny of a parent who had his favorites and his more numerous black sheep. God chooses at the very instant he first sees a mortal soul. He knows the company he wants to keep in the immortal city.”

“What happens to the ones he don’t choose?” Toni asked, an awestruck parishioner from a country hamlet on her first visit to the Vatican.

“They fade from the memory of God and therefore cease to exist.”

Sovereign didn’t realize how closely he’d been listening until the emissary spoke these words. That was when the soft feeling of inebriation turned toward sorrow in his chest.

“That’s just the end for them?” Toni said, echoing Sovereign’s feeling with her tone.

“Yes.”

“What chance do you have to be picked?”

“The walls of heaven contain an infinite space,” Monte told the girl. “But the void outside dwarfs that. Almost all people born and living are destined to disappear in the annals of man and God.”

“But what about my brother?” Sovereign interposed.

Monte and Toni turned toward him, resentment at his interruption fixed on their faces. Then Monte sat back and smiled.

“Jinx is one of the special ones,” he said. “The kind of guy who always gets it right even when he fucks up royally. Excuse my language. He’s the one in a million. When he jumps out of the frying pan he lands on a desert island with a village full of native girls who have been waiting for him but they never knew it.”

“That why you call him Jinx?” Sovereign asked. “Because he’s so lucky?”

“Lucky,” Monte said, “is a guy who wins the lottery and then realizes his life hasn’t really gotten any better. Your brother was born rich. He came to a small village in southern Peru, gave all of his money to a local hospital on a whim, and was adopted by the entire town — protected until he could start an intercontinental import-export business based in Brazil, Rome, and Moscow.”

“So Eddie’s happy,” Sovereign said. “Is that what you’re telling me?”