Unknown - The Genius

The next door swings open and the smell of camphor rolls over him. He stifles a cough and steps inside.

The room is unoccupied. There is a small bed, neatly made, and opposite it an armoire, painted white with horses and other animals, a peaceful little scene. He throws it open and jumps back, ready to fight off a snarling beast.

Bare hangers stir.

Disappointed, he tries the third door and finds a bathroom, also empty.

He returns to the bedroom and walks to the window. From it he has a wonderful view of Central Park, perhaps the best in the house. The trees are soft and green and shivering beneath the slaty sky. Birds turn circles over the Reservoir. He wants to stick his head out and see more but the window is nailed shut.

He tries to put together what he has learned, to set out all the clues in front of him, but they do not add up. Perhaps he will learn when he gets older. Or perhaps he was wrong: there was no girl, and he imagined the entire episode. It wouldn’t be the first time he accidentally grafted one of his fantasies onto a real memory. He might have misunderstood his parents’ argument. He doesn’t understand, and he knows he doesn’t understand, awareness making ignorance twice as painful.

Spirits sinking, he turns to go. For a moment he hopes something will have changed. But the room is still empty, the bed still mute, the floor still dusty and plain.

Then he sees something he missed. Under the bed, against the wall, almost invisible; he kneels down and reaches for it and grasps it and pulls it out and holds it up. It’s a girl’s shoe.

14

woke up in a bed at St. Vincent’s, and the first thing I said was, “Where’s the art?” Marilyn looked up from her magazine. “Oh good,” she said. “You’re up.” She went into the hallway and returned with a nurse, who began subjecting me to a battery of tests, hands and instruments shoved up my nose and down my throat.

“Marilyn.” It rather came out as Mayawa. “Yes, darlin.” “Where’s the art?” “What did he say?”

“Where’s the art. The art. Where’s the art.” “I can’t understand him, can you?” “Art. Art.”

“Can you give him something so he won’t bark?” Some time later I woke up again. “Marilyn. Marilyn.”

She appeared through the curtain, her smile fatigued. “Hello again. Did you have a nice nap?” “Where’s the art?” “Art?”

“The drawings.” My eyes hurt. My head hurt. “The Crackes.”

“You know, the doctor said you might be a little disoriented.”

“The drawings, Marilyn.”

“Do you want some more pain stuff ?”

I grunted.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

I’ll spare you further details of my reemergence. Suffice it to say that I had a wretched headache, that the busyness of the emergency room made my headache worse, and I was glad when they determined me well enough to leave. Marilyn didn’t want me going home, though, and through money or influence she secured me a private room on the inpatient floor, which she told me I’d have as long as I felt unwell.

They wheeled me upstairs.

“You look like Etienne,” Marilyn said.

“How long have I been here?” I asked.

“About sixteen hours. You know, you’re very boring when you’re unconscious.” Underneath her sarcasm was genuine terror.

I was not too confused and miserable to wonder how she had gotten there.

“Your neighbor came back from walking his dog and found you on the front step. He called the ambulance and the gallery. Ruby called me this morning. Here I am. Incidentally, she’s going to try to come by again this evening.”

“Again?”

“She was here. You don’t remember?”

“No.”

“She and Nat both. They brought a box of eclairs, which the nurses took away, I believe for themselves.”

“Thank you,” I said to her. Then I thanked the intern pushing me. Then I fell asleep.

THE NEXT VISIT I REMEMBER CLEARLY was from the police. I told them as much as I could remember, starting from the moment I left the gallery and up until I set the box down on the sidewalk. They seemed disappointed that I couldn’t given them even the thinnest description of my assailant, although my account of dinner at Sushi Gaki seemed to interest them particularly. Even in my semi-addled state, the idea that someone from the restaurant had assaulted me for a box of drawings struck me as outlandish. I tried to convince them of this, but they kept harping on my “showing the stuff around.”

“I wasn’t advertising anything,” I said. “The hostess asked to see it.”

“Does she know what you do?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. I might have mentioned it at one time or another. She’s ninety-five pounds, for God’s sake.”

“It didn’t have to be her, necessarily.”

They continued to pursue this line of questioning until my headache forced me to close my eyes. When I opened them next, the police were gone and Marilyn was back. She’d brought eclairs to replace the ones the nursing staff had filched.

“You don’t deserve me,” she said.

“You’re right,” I said. “Marilyn?”

“Yes, darlin boy.”

“I’m feeling something on my face.”

She took out her compact and pointed the mirror at me.

I was aghast.

“It’s not that bad,” she said.

“It looks bad.”

“It’s just a big bandage. It won’t even scar.”

“Am I missing a tooth?”

ce-n ť

Two.

“How did I not notice that?” I poked my tongue around in the gaps.

“You’re on a lot of drugs.” She patted her purse. “I’ve got some myself.”

Ruby came. “Sorry I couldn’t make it earlier, things’ve been crazy. We’ll be ready, don’t worry.”

“Ready for what?” I asked.

“You have an opening tonight,” said Marilyn.

“We do? Whose?”

“Alyson.”

I sighed. “Shit.”

Ruby said, “She sends her best. She’s going to visit tomorrow.”

“Tell her not to come,” I said. “I don’t want to see anyone. Shit.”

“It’ll be fine. We have everything under control.”

“I’m giving you a raise,” I told her. “Nat, too.”

Marilyn said, “Ask for a health plan.”

“They already have a health plan.”

“Then ask for a company jet.”

“Actually,” Ruby said, “we could do with a new mini-fridge. The old one’s been making noise.”

“Since when?”

“A few weeks.”

“I hadn’t noticed.”

Ruby shrugged, the meaning of which was clear enough. Of course I hadn’t noticed; I hadn’t been around the gallery.

“Go ahead,” I told her. “Get whatever you need. And call me after the opening.”

“Thank you.”

She left, and I said to Marilyn, “I hope they’re okay.”

“They’ll be fine. In fact, as far as I can tell, your absence is serving only to prove how irrelevant you are.”

THE COMBINATION OF A SEVERE CONCUSSION and all-you-can-eat painkillers doesn’t do wonders for your ability to gauge the passage of time. I think it was on my third morning when I woke up and saw that Marilyn, sitting in the purple vinyl chair, reading Us Weekly, was no longer Marilyn but Samantha.

I considered this a fairly nasty joke on the part of my subconscious. I said, “Give me a break.”

Samantha/Marilyn looked up. She put down the magazine and stood by my bedside. “Hi,” she said. Her warm hand made the rest of me feel cold. I began to shiver.

“Are you okay?” she said.

“Give me a break… .”

“I’m going to get the nurse.”

“That’s right, Marilyn! Get the nurse!”

I expected the nurse to have Samantha’s face, as well. But she was black.