I intensified my entreaties to those below, calling as loud as I could, pounding on the metal, but to no avail. I tried to turn over but there wasn’t enough room to raise myself up. I had a small red Swiss Army knife in my pocket, but what good would it do me? There was nothing I could cut with it. My wrists, I thought, smiling at my own limp humor.
The train was beginning to slow down, and as I continued to edge forward, I was getting entangled with a section of complicated cables and hissing pipes and intertwined wires that were giving off sparks. There were blinking colored lights that I followed into a narrow chasm that imprisoned me above the exit ramp of the train, where all the passengers were deboarding. The area was crowded with porters; police; vendors of food, souvenirs, and periodicals; train personnel; men and women in uniform; passengers arriving and departing. I shouted at those who came near, but my voice was thoroughly well shot by now, and rapping on the glass with my knife was feeble and attracted no response. The whooshing volume of steam emanating from the hissing pipes was noticeably increasing, the heat and lack of visibility of my area beginning to affect me. I found it increasingly difficult to breathe and to see anything through the curtain of thick steam. I had to gasp for air and I pounded frantically on the glass with my folded knife, praying someone would respond. My good eye was now completely blinded by the steam. My mouth was a furnace trying to suck in resisting air. My breath became a cough, deeper and deeper as I fought to keep conscious, trying to draw a fragment of air into my lungs but losing the fight, until with a desperate piercing sound I threw myself forward and, coughing heavily, fell on the floor beside my bed, clutching the mangled bedclothes, my torn pillow over my face.
I pulled myself up and grabbed the bottle of water on my nightstand. I desperately uncapped it and gulped it dry. My mind was disoriented and I continued to inhale deep draws of air. I lowered myself onto the bed, shut my eyes, and tried to steady myself on the pitching sea. Waves crashed: the horrible ride on the imaginary train, the surrendering cry of the Nepali water buffalo, the mounting cases at my office, and the ever-present knowledge that I had Bonnet syndrome, I would forever have Bonnet syndrome. It was as if I had been conked on the head with a two-by-four wielded by Violet’s father.
There was another bottle of water on the nightstand. I poured some on my face and on the top of my head, the water lifting me and becoming the windshield wiper of my frazzled mind. The fog slowly cleared away and took the illusion of freedom with it. The disillusion of the Bonnet had reasserted itself, and I would have to settle for being its hostage for the rest of my life.
I managed to wrap my terry-cloth robe around myself and pad out onto the terrace. There was moonlight, but the awful altitudinous fence was even more decrepit and even higher than I remembered it. It blocked my view of the delicate branches of the white birch, the glistening leaves of the chestnuts, and the unruly sassafras. I was still coughing and wheezing but I staggered across the grass to the reflecting pool to pay homage to the trio of giant koi who had been there as long as I had. I sat there on the stone bench, watching them perform their graceful dances with a retinue of lesser koi attending them. I was suddenly swept back to sitting on the stone-carved bench of the Nepali monks, with my feet in their crackling stream. A rush of sadness came over me. Sad that I had been so desperate for a miracle. Sad I had throttled what little hope I had to free myself from the unending humiliation of the Bonnet syndrome. Until now I had foolishly tried to combat this affliction, trying to deny Dr. Brevoro’s reality. Well, no more. I knew I now had no choice but to surrender—not to despair, but to reality. I had to find a way to live with that reality and concentrate on what I had that was enjoyable and positive while soldiering up to the negative emanations as best I could.
One of the koi broke the surface and splashed back down, which caused me to recall that previously the pool’s surface had invariably been covered by artificial syndrome garden waste, but perhaps this was a signal that the syndrome was going to be a bit more forgiving. It was a minor thing, this clear, exposed water, but it was something positive to cling to when I felt like I was drowning.
chapter nineteen
My new resolve to accept Bonnet syndrome for what it was and stop trying to combat it was aided and abetted by the grace of being very busy and distracted, my mind focused on other things. The Tee trial still lurked, ominous, on my calendar, and I was yet to figure out if I was capable of winning it—or even conducting myself professionally for its duration. Meanwhile, the—mostly self-imposed—deadline for the next Jefferson Honeywell adventure was approaching as well. There, at least, I found myself blessed with a sudden breakthrough: what if the perpetually single detective finally found love? Words flew from my fingers once I began crafting the story of Honeywell’s life-changing chance encounter with a beautiful jazz singer, whose career had been temporarily derailed by an accident that left her wheelchair-bound. The connection this unlikely pair formed reinvigorated them both.
It wasn’t entirely without self-awareness that I composed these pages. Merely that, thus far, it was only within the confines of my fiction that I could express what was boiling inside me.
And so little by little, like a wandering creek finding its path, I settled into an existence that afforded me the best chance of enduring with Bonnet syndrome intrusions. Once again, I began avoiding social engagements, as it made me more and more uncomfortable having to deal with people and conditions that nobody else was aware of. I still saw Charlie and Lydia but not very often, even though they were most solicitous about my syndrome, always inquiring when I was with them about what was happening to me that they weren’t able to discern. In New York I ate dinners alone at one or two comfortable places where I often brought a book to the table as my companion. Weekends in Connecticut I would mostly bring frozen gourmet meals obtainable from two outstanding places: Maria’s Kitchen on Third Avenue and William Poll on Lexington. I would put a meal in the microwave, following directions, and dine on the terrace, good weather permitting, or in front of the television. At first, the invading syndrome characters were upsetting, but there were nights they didn’t show up, and the nights they did I eventually taught myself how to concentrate on somehow disregarding them. Don’t look at them, pretend they are not there, pretend you are like everyone who’s not so afflicted, don’t let your emotions get the better of you.
To my surprise, on late Connecticut nights when I felt an emptiness close to despair, I would go to Bhairav, who sat on a windowsill, his fierce scowl and beard dominating the living room, and feed him a daub of gin on his belly and a drop of blood on his foot. Karki had come to the Yak and Yeti just before I left, with a bundle of blood packs to take with me and advice: feed Bhairav regularly, tell him your troubles, explain that you need his help and his great powers, and if he likes you, he may be able to help you. What have you got to lose? On those melancholy nights I even lit lavender incense and played Nepali music.
Then in one week I received two interesting pieces of mail. The first was from my ex-fiancée, Violet Dixon: a gold-embossed announcement of her marriage to Dexter von Beideihof. I was glad that Violet had found someone, but I thought about calling Dexter and warning him to duck when Lance R. A. Dixon forces him to play tennis and goes up for a fatal overhead.
The second was a letter from Dr. Gopal telling me that he had completed his in-depth assessment of my hand with this conclusion: that I may have sidestepped some of my current troubles, but that there was a strong indication that some unexpected episode would occur that would in some way reset my existence—who I was and what I did.
chapter twenty
I was enjoying one of my now-rarer lunches with Charlie when out of the blue, he asked about Emma Vicky—or, as he still called her, “sleeve lady.” He did not reveal his source but he seemed to have recently come to know a considerable amount about Ménière’s.
“One thing’s for sure,” he said, “sh
e may have vertigo, twirl and tumble a lot now, but as time passes it may decrease.”
“Charlie, I can’t help but feel like you’re leading the witness.”
Charlie laughed. “No, no…I’m just saying, if she’s as wonderful as I remember you saying she is, it would be a pity if she continues to shut herself away for all time. Maybe you should call her up. Perhaps Lydia and I can—?”
His phone rang and he quickly answered, spoke for a few seconds, and pushed up from the table. “It’s Lydia. The baby’s coming, she’s heading to the hospital. Wish us good luck. I’ll phone you.” And he was hurriedly on his way. I was genuinely elated for him with just a touch of envy. Being a syndrome victim as I was, I couldn’t see myself, given my limitations, being much of a father.
But Charlie, it seemed, already had some of my own father’s magic: He’d laid it plainly in front of me, what I should do. What I wanted to do.
Despite the fact that I hadn’t seen Emma in months, my mind had never left her. In our short time together, I had been physically drawn to her, but it was more than that—or it could have been. But I had convinced myself that burdening her with my neediness would double her load instead of considering the possibility that the two of us carrying on together might be able to halve it.
Knowing that across the city, Lydia was laboring to launch a whole new life into the world, I summoned my own courage and phoned Emma. I was braced for any number of reactions, from anger to indifference, but instead Emma expressed only delight to hear from me after so long. Her lovely, lyrical voice was everything I remembered.
A few minutes’ discussion revealed that her birthday was approaching, and emboldened as I was, I suggested the time had come for her to overcome her fear of having a Ménière’s attack in a restaurant and convinced her that together we could take chances. She was not quite sure but when I offered to make a reservation at Maialino, a fine restaurant that we could walk to on the other side of Gramercy Park, she decided, yes, it was time.
It proved to be a splendid foray. The moment we laid eyes on each other again, everything that had hung between us seemed to snap back into place within the space of a breath. We walked to the restaurant arm in arm, she looking even more beautiful in her birthday finery. We were seated in a small banquette facing each other. My only syndrome pestilence was a sprinkling of strange-shaped flora on top of the warm bread in its basket, unobserved, of course, by Emma, who remained sprightly and confident despite the threat of her Ménière’s.
On the way back from the restaurant, Emma felt a little whirly from looking up at the half-moon overhead, so we sat down on a bench and talked for a while and I could feel a subtle change in how we were with each other.
After the success of her birthday dinner, I started seeing Emma more and more often—in a way it felt as if the entire time we’d been apart, we’d actually been together; I could feel the ghost of her presence in my memories of Nepal. Though we agreed to take things slow, physically, emotionally—well, it was the most sudden and most complete connection certainly that I’d ever felt with any woman, any other person. We enjoyed our time together, often reading Shakespearean plays in which she had performed, and I sometimes got her to sing Shakespearean sonnets with her guitar (sonnets that she had sung on the tour of her group). I brought dinners to her from places like Maria’s Kitchen (chicken curry) and William Poll (cheese soufflé). Emma continued to overcome her Ménière’s reticence and we were able to go to more restaurants and even the ballet, where a stage full of spinning dancers induced some trauma but she recovered before the final curtain fell. And if clowns or spots appeared, I found I was able to successfully ignore them. I focused instead on the warmth of Emma beside me, the weight of her hand in mine.
chapter twenty-one
The day after our interrupted lunch and the crucial call that brought Emma back into my life, Charlie phoned me. In an elated voice, he related that the birth had been easy as easy could be and asked if I would like to come take a look at handsome Alfred Epps, who had a full shock of hair and a great pair of shoulders. Alfred, named after Charlie’s father, was indeed a great-looking baby, and I was very happy for Charlie, standing there with my arm around my friend’s shoulders as he exuded fatherly wonderment in this miracle that had happened to him and Lydia.
A few weeks later, once mother and baby were safely home and settled, I took Charlie to Tavern on the Green for a proper celebration. Sidestepping for now the fresh new thing with Emma, I used the occasion to air my concerns about the Tee case—the trial, as he well knew, was now mere weeks away. Since my poor showing in the deposition, I knew I would have to rely more than ever on Charlie to keep me in check.
“So, Charlie, since I can’t seem to get out of trying this case, will you at least be my wingman?”
“Of course, Chet, but I’m worried, I’ll be out of my league—I’m not a proper litigator. Are you sure you can’t get someone like Lionel McCaffell?”
“Tried him. Not free…”
“Otto Freeley?”
“Out of the country.”
“Well, I’ll do all I can to find somebody to help us out. I’ll call around. Must be somebody. What about your associate?”
“Lois is great but she has no trial experience. You’ve been in the trenches with me; I trust you.”
Though he kept spouting caveats, Charlie, like I knew he would, agreed.
The next evening, when I was at dinner with Emma, she asked me why I looked so troubled. On this night we were having dinner in an Italian place near her apartment. I told her about my ongoing dilemma.
“The last cross-examination…I was awful, confused. I would never trust myself again because the syndrome will surely pull the same trick. Being in a courtroom, with a jury and members of the press in the gallery, is a recipe for disaster.”
“You see? Giving in like that! That’s what you and I talked about. Only makes it worse.”
The waiter arrived with our bottle of Chianti and a platter of calamari.
“But if I fumble again on this one and lose, the verdict would be really costly and more humiliating. It’s a tough case as it is.”
“Not if you go in there believing in yourself. And really mad at these syndrome bastards. Let me tell you something: When I was cast in a West End play for the first time, I came onstage in that big theater and faced that sea of people, including the main critics, and I truly lost my way. Botched my lines. Fumbled my stage directions…”
“That was me stammering at my witness—botched everything.”
“My first reaction was shame. I thought I should let my understudy replace me—in fact I was sure the director was going to do just that—but after a sleepless kind of night, I got up the next day feeling angry for knuckling under and disgracing myself onstage. I had lunch with my mother, who gave me a big hug of congratulations. ‘What for?’ I asked. ‘I was pitiful.’ My mother got a laugh out of that. ‘You had a little first-time jitters, that’s all. You were just fine.’ I said, ‘No, I wasn’t. I expect to be replaced for tonight’s performance.’ ‘Oh, darling,’ she said, ‘nonsense. All the good things in you will find your way for you.’
“As it turned out the director didn’t replace me—only gave me a few notes—and I inhaled the applause that washed over me that following night.”
Our second course arrived, veal Milanese on the bone topped with arugula, which we shared.
“In other words, you think I should stay on the case and make myself face a jury again—probably with a pack of syndrome interlopers in the jury box, unseen by the judge?”
She fixed her gold-flecked eyes on me. “Yes, yes,” she said, “yes. And what’s more, I’ll give you an IOU to cover a negative verdict if there is one.”
We both laughed at that.
“How about this—you told me the TV guy you’re doing the voice-over for wants you to do
a commercial for the same Brit sponsor but you turned him down.”
“Yeah. I told him about my unpredictable Ménière’s…”
“But you said he didn’t care, that it’s easy to start and stop shooting. Yet you still turned him down, right?”
“I did.”
“All right. Tell you what—you do the commercial and I’ll do the trial, even though the courtroom will probably be packed with syndrome fakes. We can each practice our lines in front of each other the night before. What do you say?”
She gave me a scrunched-up look. Drained her wine. Plunked down the glass emphatically. “I don’t know if we are good or bad for each other,” she said.
chapter twenty-two
No matter how much time one has to prepare for trial, it’s never enough. I had to read and analyze all the depositions plus all the discovery materials. I had to coach Penelope on how to answer questions truthfully and effectively like last time, except with the eyes of the jury on her. I took all of this to my apartment to avoid distraction. Of course there were plenty of the usual syndrome invaders—floating objects like blue scarves and dancing music notes, and the occasional appearance of a woman in a silk gown trimmed in fur and a man blowing a soundless bugle—but by now I had made myself somewhat immune to their effects, as if repetition were a vaccine.
I reread Topiary a few more times, re-studying the passages about Cespuglio and the poem. The more I read, the more I became aware of the somber challenge I faced.
Kissing the Wind Page 10
