A Naked Singularity: A Novel

by Sergio De La Pava

  Benitez agreed to make his second title defense against Sugar Ray Leonard and the bout was scheduled for November 30, 1979, in Las Vegas, Nevada.

  When the court officers finally brought Soldera out, before the judge had even arrived, he looked like partially-inflated skin. He smiled at me when our eyes met which made no sense. Was it just that they were the first friendly ones he’d seen in a while? Did he think their owner could help him, that deluded?

  I played my role and asked what had happened that day when he stepped out for a purported second then vanished. He tried. He said he’d gotten sudden sick then attempted to call but . . . a-series-of-un-related-words-that-could-never-combine-to-form-exculpatory-sense. Then he stopped and just shrugged his shoulders as we both seemed to implicitly acknowledge the futility of him breathing more lonely falsities into the air.

  I tried to get him out, tried to reverse a force no more forgiving than gravity. I told Cymbeline what had happened, why it wasn’t faultless Soldera’s fault. Why he should be released and restored to what he was before that day, that is, a collection of crooked bones tortured and punished by her whenever its physical condition improved. I expressed remorse on behalf of another which it then occurred to me was probably not strictly possible.

  Nonetheless I continued, afraid to stop. She mostly said nothing but when she did utter something, I would seize on the slightest word, the slightest hope, and run off in that direction. She never stopped me. She would look at her watch then through me. The court reporter kept up her soundless typing and I kept going. The court officers rolled their eyes, they wanted to go home and I was the only thing stopping them. Even when I thought I was done, I found I could keep going. I knew I was making a fool of myself and should just shut up but I couldn’t. I was mentally pretending I was trying to talk myself out of going to jail and operating under this hypothetical there was nothing I wouldn’t say. Nothing too stupid. Until at longest last there was nothing more I could think of, damn limited brain, and I stopped speaking.

  Cymbeline summed up. The defendant had been given a break by a previous judge. Because of his medical condition he’d been allowed to remain out, following his plea of guilty and pending his sentence, provided he produced intermittent medical updates, stayed out of trouble, and continually returned to court. Despite this opportunity, the defendant had failed to return to court and no reasonable and believable excuse had been provided. Moreover, there was ample reason to believe that the defendant’s physical condition was not as bleak as had been painted by defense counsel. Consequently, there was no reason why the defendant could not be sentenced in accordance with the statutory sentencing requirements relevant to Criminal Sale of a Controlled Substance in the Fourth Degree a class C felony with a mandatory minimum sentence, under these circumstances, of 3 to 6. The defendant was remanded. The case was adjourned for exactly four weeks for the Department of Probation to prepare a presentencing report and for the defendant to be sentenced. Take charge court officers.

  Soldera gone, Cymbeline then looked at me intently. She had the appearance of someone who had handled a minor detail and was now ready to get to the fun part. “Now that that’s out of the way,” she said, “the only thing left to consider, as I’m sure you’ve been made aware by your supervisors, is your conduct counselor.”

  My conduct I wondered? Was I now being accused of possessing stolen property as well?

  “Very good. Keep it up counselor, it’s remarks like that that have gotten you into this situation. I’m sure Judge Arronaugh will be interested to hear that you’re continuing the conduct that serves as the basis for her complaint.”

  Arronaugh? Complaint? I didn’t understand.

  “I assure you counselor that a contempt proceeding is a very serious matter especially for a young attorney such as yourself. Made all the more serious in this instance by the fact that I will be joining Judge Arronaugh as a highly-esteemed co-complainant based on what Mr. Soldera told this court here on Friday.”

  Co-complainants? Never heard such a term. She must’ve simply invented it. It wasn’t one of those invented terms I liked either. Co complainants sounded bad. Bad for me. Like double the trouble or something.

  “Do you know what Mr. Soldera told this courtroom before you arrived counselor?”

  I didn’t and I was hesitant to hazard a guess.

  “Put succinctly he claims that you told him to leave this courtroom on his last court date when a warrant was ordered. Now don’t say anything. You of course have the right to an attorney and the like. I will simply say that it is a very grave matter when an attorney, an officer of the court, counsels an individual to break the law, the law in this case being the proscription against bail jumping. If that were the only allegation of course it would be a different matter. I don’t have to tell you that Judge Arronaugh alleges you made some tremendously disrespectful and disruptive comments on Friday that constituted contempt of court. All of this will, of course, be detailed in the forthcoming complaint counselor. If I were you I would stay in close contact with my supervisors as they will be the first to be informed of the formal charges. Good day counselor.”

  That mouthful said, she left.

  I felt shame for some reason but it didn’t last. The court officers made little inviting, faux-supportive comments trying to get me to talk about what the judge had said and I almost did, but then I changed my mind and went in the back to see Soldera.

  “What’s going to happen next time?” he said.

  “She’s going to pick a number and sentence you.”

  “No more doctor’s letters?”

  “No more.”

  “It’s okay man. You tried so hard, you fight so hard for me man. If not for you I wouldn’t a been out all these months man, if not for you, and it was good this time I was out. I didn’t use any stuff, even out you know? No poison. Anyway I know I don’t got long left but in the time I do got I’m going to remember what you didded for me.”

  Soldera was crying now . . . slowly.

  I looked at him crying. I kind of wished I could cry too but I couldn’t. I don’t mean that I couldn’t allow myself to cry. I mean that even if I had tried my damndest to cry I would have been unable to. I said “did you tell the judge I told you to split last time you were in court?”

  “I don’t recollect what anything I said man. She was like screaming at me and shit and I was just responding in defense and whatnot. I think I did say that maybe. For sure actually. Why? That going to get you in trouble?”

  “Doubt it.”

  “Because I can tell her the truth next time.”

  “No, she’s evil, she’d just take it out on you at sentencing.”

  “You in trouble?”

  “Cares.”

  “You’re in trouble?”

  “How could I ever be in trouble?”

  “Okay.”

  “Settled then.”

  When I went back into the courtroom to get my bag all the court officers were gone and the door was locked. I went through the sneaky door judges use to enter the courtroom. Beyond that door was a maze of hallways leading to a slew of doors but no magic EXIT sign in sight.

  I moved briskly with a determined gait as if I knew perfectly well where I was going. After making a couple of ill-advised turns, I was now irredeemably lost and couldn’t have retraced my steps had I fervently desired. I started opening doors at random without succor. Twice I opened the door to courtrooms where jurors were hearing evidence. The doors were supposed to have goddamn plaques detailing what was inside but they didn’t. When I came across the plaques they were bunched up on the ground, in a corner, next to a dropcloth and a can of paint. What evil genius had created these catacombs? And for what nefarious purpose?

  Near defeat, I tried a green door fully expecting another judge’s glare. Instead I saw stairs, stairs I took all the way down for what seemed like a lot more than seven floors. At the rock bottom were two more doors, side by side and identical. I tried the l
eft one for a change and it opened. The cold felt good but I was below street level in a pit-like enclosure without visible egress. I threw my bag up and out of the pit. Then I scaled the cement wall, did a gymnasticy flip over the rail at the top, and landed on the sidewalk. My bag had opened upon landing, spilling everything everywhere. I fell to my knees to gather the detritus.

  I’d never exited that way before. I doubted anyone else had either.

  chapter 16

  I’m no stranger (meaning than before).

  My memory knew no middle ground. Brilliantly exact, to the point of absurdity, on some matters while negligently absent on others, with neither rhyme nor reason a guide to determining which when. After collecting my things from the sidewalk, I was overcome by a powerful desire to go home, and to avoid Conley now that I knew what he wanted to talk about, so I did. But no sooner had friendly Casper let me in, and my body dropped on the sofa, when I remembered that I had agreed to meet Toomberg in my office that night to work on Kingg. My apartment felt transient now and seemed to tease me for my stupidity.

  But I had an idea.

  I picked up my phone, a device that had to be held at a precise 53° angle from the user’s face in order to work properly, and called Toomberg. He wasn’t there and I was whisked to his voicemail. Because of the distance created between mouthpiece and mouth, you had to yell on this end to be audible on the other. I left a message:

  Toom! It’s Casi! I had to come home because of a thing! I was wondering if we could do it here at my place so I wouldn’t have to go back to the office! There’s a library a couple blocks away! I love that library too, it would be a great place to work! I don’t mean to suggest it’s an overly special library or anything! It’s your basic library! You got your newspapers on wooden sticks if you like that sort of thing! They’ve got their share of books too! Though incredibly The Magic Mountain isn’t one of them! You believe that?! No Magic Mountain! Thomas Mann they keep out but they’ve got all sorts of other Toms in there. All the Toms and Thomases your soul could desire! Not Tommy Mann though! Anyway call me back! It’s Casi!

  I hung up and hit redial.

  Toom! Me again! I didn’t give you my number and I’m not sure you have it with you at work! Also I lied before and I feel guilty! Not about the library, it’s as I described it! When I said I had to come home because of a thing, the thing I came home because of was my pathetic memory! I completely forgot about our meeting! Why do people say completely forgot?! If I only partially forgot then that’s called remembering and I wouldn’t be leaving this message which I never do! Call me!

  I rehit redial.

  It occurs to me now that I might have given you the wrong impression before about Thomas Mann like I’m some big reader of his work and was thus outraged that I couldn’t find Magic Mountain! Truth is I’ve never read Magic Mountain or Buddenbrooks either for that matter! And the reason for that has nothing to do with the availability of those books in my local library! I have a dog-eared Magic Mountain and though I have picked it up countless times over the years it never takes me very long to put it down for good or at least until the next time! And before you get all worked up I assure you that I have other equal and even far greater holes in my education! Just wanted to come clean . . . an expression that as I think about it right this minute either makes perfect sense or no sense at all!

  The moment I hung up, the door knocked. Well someone knocked on my door and it’s hard to screen such a thing when you’ve just been screaming into the phone loud enough for the entire tri-state area to hear. I never asked who it was before opening either as I liked to be surprised. Accordingly, I abstained from looking through the peephole. If I had, I would have been ready for what I saw when I opened: Traci smiling and possessing a high degree of delectability.

  It seemed there was a pendant. Traci had left this pendant in Louie’s apartment and wanted it back. It had been arranged that she would stop by then, when Angus would be there, and get it from him. Louie and Alyona were not supposed to be there, and they weren’t, but neither was Angus. “I think I hear him in there, I hear voices anyway, but he doesn’t answer the door,” she said. Did I know where he was? She heard voices. When I told her that Angus never turned Television off, even when nobody was home, she said she knew that but this was different. Different because, “the voices didn’t sound like Television but it was weird because they also didn’t sound like they emanated from real people. They sounded like something in between those two things, in the middle.” But since they also didn’t sound like Angus she was now convinced I was probably right and nobody was home. She could wait inside I thought aloud. We could leave the door open so we would hear if one of the three stooges showed up ready to rescue her pendant. No, I didn’t mind.

  The pendant had hung on her grandmother. The grandmother was now dead and didn’t need pendants. She should’ve never worn it outside her house. Traci.

  The sofa was comfortable.

  “It better be, it takes up about eighty percent of the room’s surface area.”

  “I was going to say, this is a very small—”

  “Cozy was, I think, the term used by the real estate agent.”

  “Yes, this is a very cozy apartment.”

  “I wish it was fucking airy.”

  Laughter.

  “How come Alyona and those guys’ apartment is so much . . . less cozy?”

  Because it was a weird building. I lived in the only brownstone in Brooklyn Heights that wasn’t a box or rectangle. It was a bottleneck. The pressure fizzled and bubbled below in the fat part of the bottle. There it compressed and mounted as it rose up and into the narrow mouth of the bottle. That’s where we were, the escape.

  “So you feel pressure?”

  “No, but because it sounds sort of cool when you say it that way that’s my story and I’m sticking with it.”

  I didn’t sit on the sofa with her. I sat on this crazy, wobbly stool with my feet on the arm of the sofa. Against the other arm lay Traci. She had slipped out of her shoes and sat on her folded legs, her hands clasped together atop her knees. I’m going to say she had flaxen hair, even though she didn’t, because I like that word. Flaxen. Her eyes I have no good single word for but how could I have previously failed to notice their emerald luminescence? The face was all cheekbones but not too sharp, just right. The entire time I made these observations Traci had been speaking. I had listened not at all, and now she was unmistakably waiting for a response.

  “Yeah,” I said plaintively like all whattya gunna do?

  “So you think I should?”

  “Hard to say,” especially when you haven’t the faintest idea what the discussion is about.

  “I figured you would be the person to ask.”

  “Sure, you’d think.”

  “Being that you obviously went to law school.”

  “Law school, right. Law school yeah.”

  “ . . .”

  “Yeah, it’s just a tough question you know? Maybe it would help if you restated the problem. In the plainest language possible.”

  “Should I go to law school?”

  “That’s as plain as it gets.”

  Suddenly Traci didn’t look so great anymore, asking me if she should go to law school. Who cared? Go or don’t go. What, really, was the difference? Who took career advice from the likes of me? And I hated people who used the word career in referring to themselves. Not that she had used that word far as I could tell. Like people who wore fancy hats. Just expose your dopey skull, do your time on this rock, then go wherever it is we go when all’s been said. Of course I should point out, in fairness, that if a woman wore a hat I practically melted. That, and the fact that the black, bowler-type hat Traci wore then was highly scrumptious, made me forget my annoyance almost as soon as it had arisen. While thinking these thoughts it seems I had managed to keep my mouth moving and somehow satisfactorily answer Traci’s question. We could move on.

  “So you and Louie?”

/>   “Finished. If we ever even got started.”

  I was smitten now. She had smote me. I loved her voice. It was gravelly and weak like it had recently been overtaxed. What a revelation being there then, with her. I needed only play this situation just right. The mutuality of our interest was in the air, hanging and waiting. Even the simplest dullard would have no trouble converting the current situation into a long-running, torrid interaction. Even so, the utmost precision and care was called for. Every word would have to be measured. Every nonverbal cue refined to shiny perfection. Just this once I could personate normalcy, do the things everybody else does without spending a second thought. I could pretend. I’d seen it done before and had no doubt about my ability to mimic. Above all, I had to be conventional. Had to play it cool.

  “We should fall in love,” I said.

  “Love?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m not sure I get what you mean.”

  “You’ve heard the expression falling in love?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know generally what it refers to?”

  “Yes.”

  “So let’s do it, let’s fall in love with each other.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “Why? Doesn’t it look like fun?”

  “What look like fun?”

  “Love. I mean look at all the breath expended on the subject. The movies, the books, poems, songs. That many people can’t be wrong. Love!”

  “Yes, love. But what is it and what does it mean to fall in it?”

  “You don’t know what it is? You’ve never felt it?”

  “Probably not the kind you’re talking about. You? Well, obviously . . .”

  “What?”

  “You’re telling me you’re in love with me yet we hardly know each other, practically strangers.”

  “First of all, I never said I was in love with you. Secondly, the amount of time we’ve known each other is irrelevant. I know a wacky Italian poet who scarcely knew the woman he adored and who would later guide him through Paradise.”