by Martin Amis
After weeks with a sour twist in my gut. The building is freestanding and even after a half hour you can feel the sun moving around it and changing the angles of all the shadows.
Trader and Jennifer, they had two bureaus, two work stations, in the living room, not ten feet apart. On his desk there is a sheet of typing paper with stuff like this written on it:
p(x) = a0 + a1x + a2x2 + a3x3 +...
On her desk there is a sheet of typing paper with stuff like this written on it:
x = 30/10-21 m = 3 x 1022 m.
And you think, Hey. He heard her. She heard him. They talked the same language. Isn’t that what we’re all supposed to want? The peer lover, ten feet away: Silence, endeavor, common cause. Isn’t that what we’re all supposed to want? For him a woman in the room. For her a man in the room, ten feet away.
I popped the blue trunk.
It contained nine photo albums and nine ribboned bundles of letters—all of them from Trader. This is their history, illustrated and annotated. And of course ordered. Ordered especially or ordered anyway? With a premeditated suicide there is generally some kind of half-assed attempt “to put things in order”: To attempt completion. To try for completion. But I didn’t get that vibe here, and figured that the Trader “shrine” had been up and running since year one. I hauled it all out and got myself down there on the rug. Starting at the beginning: His first letter, or note, is dated June 1988:
Dear Ms. Rockwell: Forgive me, but I couldn’t help noticing you on Court Two this afternoon. What a beautiful all-court game you have—and what a toreador backhand! I wonder if sometime I could prevail upon you to give me a game, or a lesson. I was the dark-haired, bow-legged hacker on Court One.
And so it proceeds (“That was quite a set of tennis!”), with little memos about lectures and lunches. Soon the album is taking up the story: There they are on the court, individually and then together. Then complication. Then complication falling away. Then sex. Then love. Then vacations: Jennifer in a ski suit, Jennifer on the beach. Man, what a bod: At twenty, she looked like a model in an ad for those cereals that taste great but also make you shit right. Bronzed Trader at her side. Then graduation. Then cohabitation. And still the handwritten letters keep coming, the words keep coming, the words a woman wants to hear. No dashed-off faxes from Trader. Faxes, which fade in six months, like contemporary love. No scrawled reminders propped against the toaster, such as I get from Tobe. And used to get from Deniss, from Jon, from Shawn, from Duwain. GET SOME TOILET PAPER FOR CHRIST SAKE. That wouldn’t do for Jennifer. She got a fucking poem every other day.
Complication? Complication fell away, and did not recur. But complication there certainly was. Its theme: Mental instability. Not hers. Not his. Other peoples. And I have to say that I was very, very surprised to see my own name featuring here...
I prepared myself for what they’re now calling a “segue.” But a lot of this stuff I already knew. The dumped boyfriend. The freaked-out flatmate. The trouble begins at the outset, when Trader starts getting serious. There’s this jock, name of Hume, who has to be eased out of the picture. Big Man on Campus can’t take the strain. So what he does is present Jennifer with the spectacle of his collapse. Et cetera. Then the other problem, unconnected to this or to anything else in the outside world: A roommate of Jennifer’s, a girl called Phyllida, wakes up one morning with black smoke coming out of her ears. Suddenly this nerdy little chick is either gaping at the bathroom wall or out there howling at the moon. Jennifer can’t cope with being around her, and bolts, back to the Rockwell home. And who does she find there, stinking up her brother’s bedroom and babbling at the pillows, but Detective Mike Hoolihan. “Jesus Christ,” Trader quotes her as saying, “I’m surrounded.”
Here’s a frustration with a one-way correspondence. The narrative doesn’t “unfold”: What you get is just a jumping status quo. Astonishing developments simply and smugly become How Things Are. Still, Trader spends a lot of ink on Jennifer around now, coaxing her out of the notion that nobody and nothing can be trusted. Sanity, or at least logic, returns. You can finish the stories:
The boyfriend, Hume, drops out for a time, and does some drugs. But he’s readmitted, and comes through civilized. He and Jennifer even manage an okay lunch.
Thickly sedated, Phyllida gets to graduate. Some collateral family member takes her in. References to her are frequent for a while. Then trail away.
And Mike Hoolihan recovers. It is approvingly noted that even someone with a background such as hers can eventually patch things together, with the right kind of understanding and support.
While Trader and Jennifer, of course, watch these heavy clouds pass over and cruise on up into their clear blue sky.
Now the bureaus and the filing cabinets and the endless, endless shite of citizenship, of existence. Bills and wills, deeds, leases, taxes—oh, man, the water torture of staying alive. That’s a good reason to end it. Confronted with all this, who wouldn’t want to rest and sleep?
Two hours on my knees brings me only two mild surprises. First: Trader, on top of everything else, is a man of independent means. I seem to remember that his daddy was big in the construction business during the Alaska boom. Here, anyway, is Trader’s modest portfolio—his bonds and shelters, his regular and generous donations to charity. Second: Jennifer never opened her bank statements. The fiercest-looking wallets of crap from the IRS lie wrenched open on her desk—but she never opened her bank statements. Here they all are, backed up from last November, and still sealed. Well, I soon rectify that. And find prudent outgoings plus a nice little sum on deposit. So why not read this good news? Then I get it. She never opened her statements because she never had to do anything about them. These were letters that needed no answer. That’s what you call a sufficiency. That’s putting dough in its proper place.
What to me feels the most intimate thing I have saved till last. Her worn leather handbag, left slung over the shoulder of a kitchen chair. This shoulder is like her shoulder, erect, wide-spanned, with the gentlest inward curve... Jesus, my bag, which I seem to spend half my life scrabbling around in, is like a town dump that’s gone through a car compactor. I’ve no idea what’s going on in there. Mice and mushrooms flourish among the fenders and spare tires. But Jennifer, naturally, traveled light, and fragrant. Boar’s bristle hairbrush, moisturizer, lip gloss, eyedrops, blush. Pen, purse, keys. Also, her datebook. And if what I’m looking for is a sense of an ending, then here I get it big-time.
I flick the pages. Jennifer wasn’t the kind of busybody who faced a thicket of commitments every waking hour. But for the first two months of the year there’s plenty happening—appointments, schedules, deadlines, reminders. And then on March second, the Friday, it all stops dead. There is nothing else for the whole year, except this, under March 23: “AD?” Which is tomorrow. Who or what is AD? Advertisement? Anno Domini? I don’t know—Alan Dershowitz?
Before I left, as I was closing the blue trunk, I took another look at Trader’s last letter. It was among the loose papers and photos yet to be gathered and organized, and it was dated February 17, this year. The postmark says Philadelphia, where Trader was attending a two-day conference on “The Mind and Physical Laws.” It’s almost embarrassing: I can hardly bring myself to quote from it. “Already the eastern side of every moment of mine is lit by you and the thought of tomorrow...”
I love you. I miss you. I love you. No. Jennifer Rockwell didn’t have a problem with this boyfriend. He’s perfect. He’s everything we all want. So what I’m thinking now is she must have had a problem with the other boyfriend.
Photograph on a bookcase. It’s graduation: Jennifer and three friends in gowns, all tall but bent with laughter. Laughing so hard they look fucked up on something. And the little crazy one, Phyllida, trapped in the frame, cowering in the corner of it.
Funny thing about the apartment. It took me a while to realize what.
No TV.
And a funny thought, on the way out. Sud
denly I’m thinking: But she’s a cop’s daughter. This means something. This has to matter.
-+=*=+-
Like all police I guess I’m state-of-the-art cynical, on the one hand. And, on the other, I don’t judge. We never judge. We may make the roust and make the collar. We may bust you. But we won’t judge you.
Fresh from the latest slaughterhouse, that kraut brute Henrik Overmars will listen to a drunk’s hard-luck story with tears in his eyes. I’ve seen Oltan O’Boye give his last fin to some self-pitying asshole at Paddy’s—some guy whose entire acquaintance has drawn down the shade on him, years ago. Keith Booker can’t pass a bum on the street—no, every time he’ll slip him a buck and squeeze his hand. I’m the same way. We’re the softest touch.
Is it because we’re plain brutal/sentimental? I don’t think so. We don’t judge you, we can’t judge you because whatever you’ve done it isn’t even close to the worst. You’re great. You didn’t fuck a baby and throw it over the wall. You don’t chop up eighty-year-olds for laughs. You’re great. Whatever you’ve done, we know all the things you might have done, and haven’t done.
In other words, our standards, for human behavior, are desperately low.
Having said all that, I was due for a shock tonight. I felt what I so seldom feel: Scandalized. I felt shock all over my body. Forget about a hot flush. I practically had the menopause in one fell swoop.
I’m back at the apartment, cooking dinner for Tobe and myself. The phone goes and a male voice says, “Yeah, can I speak with Jennifer Rockwell please?”
I said, in receptionist singsong, “Who’s calling?”
“Arnold. It’s Am.”
“One moment!”
I’m standing there tensed in the kitchen heat. Tell myself to work on what I was doing already: Keep your voice pitched up. Sound like a woman.
“Actually—hello again—actually Jennifer’s out of town tonight and I’m handling her messages here. I have her datebook here. Hey, were you guys meant to get together tomorrow sometime?”
“That’s what I’m hoping.”
“Here we go. Arnold... ? Starts with a D?”
“Debs. Arn Debs.”
“Right. Yeah, she just wants to check where and when.”
“Would around eight be good? Here at the Mallard. In the Decoy Room?”
“You got it.”
That evening, over dinner, I hardly said a word. And that night, after lights out, what happens but Tobe comes across...This is no impulse thing with Tobe. It’s a task of major administration. Like the King Arthur movies—winching the knight up onto horseback. But it was all very gentle, all very sweet and dear, as I need it to be now. Now I’m sober. Before, I liked it to be rough, or I thought I did. These days I hate the idea of all that. Enough with the rough, I think. Enough rough.
-+=*=+-
The night train woke me around quarter of four. I lay there for a time with my eyes open. No chance of reentry. So I got out of bed and made coffee and sat and smoked over my notes.
I’m upset. I’m upset anyway, but I’m also pissed about something personal. Here’s what: The remarks and descriptions in Trader’s letters. Why? They weren’t unsympathetic. And I accept that I must have been a pretty pitiful sight back then—sweating it out behind drawn blinds. What am I concerned about? My privacy? Oh, sure. As I wind down from the job I begin to see these things more clearly. And privacy is what police spend their entire lives stomping on and riding roughshod over. Very, very soon you lose the whole concept of it. Privacy? Say what? No, what’s bothering me, I think, is the stuff about my childhood. As if, given that, there could be no other outcome.
Here are two related things I have to set down.
First is the reason why I love Colonel Tom. Not the reason exactly, but the moment I knew it to be true. There was a high-profile murder up in the Ninety-Nine. A dead baby in a picnic cooler. Talk of drug wars and race riots. Media up the kazoo. I was passing his office and I heard him on the phone. Lieutenant Rockwell, as he then was, on the phone to the Mayor. And I heard him say, very deliberate: My Mike Hoolihan is going to come and straighten this out. I’d heard him use that parlance before. My Keith Booker. My Oltan O’Boye. It was just the way he said it. “My Mike Hoolihan is going to come and straighten this out.” I went into the toilet and bawled. Then I went and straightened out the murder in the Ninety-Nine.
The second thing is this. My father messed with me when I was a child. Out in Moon Park. Yeah he used to fuck me, okay? It started when I was seven and it stopped when I was ten. I made up my mind that after I hit double figures it just wasn’t going to happen. To this end I grew the fingernails of my right hand. I sharpened them also, and hardened them with vinegar. This growing, this sharpening, this hardening: This was the reality of my resolve. On the morning after my birthday he came at me in my bedroom. And I almost ripped his fucking face off. I did. I had the fucking thing in my hand like a Halloween mask. I had it by the temple, just above the eye, and I sensed that with one more rip I could find out who my father really was. Then my mother woke up. We were never a model unit, the Hoolihans. By noon that same day we ceased to exist.
I’m what they call “state-raised.” I was fostered some, but basically I’m state-raised. And as a child I always tried to love the state the way you’d love a parent, and I gave it a hundred percent. I’ve never wanted a kid. What I’ve wanted is a father. So how do we all stand, now that Colonel Tom doesn’t have a daughter?
At 7:45 I called downtown. Johnny Mac: Mr. Whip on the midnights, which would now be falling apart. I asked him to have Silvera or whoever run a make on Arnold Debs.
I dug out my list: Stressors and Precipitants. Yeah, tell me about it. I crossed out 2 (Money?). And I crossed out 6 (Deep Secret? Trauma? Childhood?). This doesn’t leave me with much.
Today I’m doing 3 (Job?). And tonight I’m doing Mr. Seven.
THE EIGHTY-BILLION-YEAR HEARTBEAT
Jennifer Rockwell, to say it all in one go, worked in the Department of Terrestrial Magnetism at the Institute of Physical Problems. The Institute lies well north of campus, in the foothills of Mount Lee, where the old observatory looms. What you do is: You take the MIE around CSU, skirting Lawnwood. And spend twenty minutes stuck in the Sutton Bay tailback. The Sutton Bay tailback: Another excellent reason for blowing your brains out.
Then you park the car and walk toward a low array of wood-clad buildings, expecting to be met by a forest ranger or a Boy Scout or a chipmunk. Here comes Chip. Here comes Dale. Here comes Woody Woodpecker, wearing a reversed baseball cap. The Department of Terrestrial Magnetism has the following words scrolled into the wall of its entrance corridor: ET GRITIS SICVT DEI SCIENTES BONVM ET MALVM. I got a translation from a kid who was passing: And you will be like gods, knowing good and evil. That’s Genesis, isn’t it? And isn’t it what the Serpent says? Whenever I’ve been out to CSU—for a criminology lecture, an o.d., a student suicide around exam time—I’ve always had the same feeling. I think: It’s a drag, not being young, but at least I don’t have to take a test tomorrow morning. Another thing I notice, at the Institute of Physical Problems, is that someone has changed all the rules of attraction. Sexual allure is a physical problem that the students are no longer addressing. In my day, at the Academy, the women were all tits and ass and the men were all dick and bicep. Now the student body has no body. Now it’s strictly sloppy-joe.
I am identified and greeted in the corridor by Jennifer’s department head. His name is Bax Denziger and he’s big in his discipline. He’s big all right: Not a joint-splitter like my Tobe, but your regular bearish, bearded, flame-eyed, slobber-mouthed type with (you can bet) an inch-thick pelt all over his back. Yeah, one of those guys who’s basically all bush. The little gap around the nose is the only clearing in the rain forest. He takes me into his office, where I feel I am surrounded by enormous quantities of information, all of it available, summonable, fingertip. He gives me coffee. I imagine asking permission to smoke, and imagin
e the way he’d say no: Totally relaxed about it. I repeat that I’m conducting an informal inquiry into Jennifer’s death, prompted by Colonel and Mrs. Rockwell. Off the record—but is it okay if I use a tape recorder? Yes. He waves a hand in the air.
Bax Denziger, incidentally, is famous: TV-famous. I know stuff about him. He has a twin-prop airplane and a second home in Aspen. He is a skier and a mountaineer. He used to lift weights for the state. And I don’t mean in prison. Three or four years ago he fronted a series on Channel 13 called “The Evolution of the Universe.” And they have him on the news-magazine shows whenever something gives in his field. Bax here is a skilled “communicator” who talks in paragraphs as if to camera. And that’s pretty much how I’m going to present it. The technical language should be right because I had Tobe run it by his computer.
I kicked off by asking him what Jennifer did all day. Would he please describe her work?
Certainly. In a department like ours you have three kinds of people. People in white coats who man the labs and the computers. People like Jennifer—postdocs, maybe assistant professors—who order the people in white coats around. And then people like yours truly. I order everyone around. Each day we have a ton of data coming in which has to be checked and processed. Which has to be reduced. That was Jennifer’s job. She was also working on some leads herself. As of last fall she was working on the Milky Way’s Virgo-infall velocity.
I asked him: Could you be more specific?
I am being specific. Perhaps I should be more general. Like everyone else here she was working on questions having to do with the age of the universe. A highly controversial and competitive field. A cutthroat field. We’re looking at the rate of expansion of the universe, the rate of the deceleration of that expansion, and the total mass-density parameter. Respectively, in shorthand: Hubbles constant, q-nought, and dark matter. We’re asking if the universe is open or closed... I look at you, Detective, and I see a resident of the naked-eye universe. I’m sure you don’t bother too much with this stuff.
