A few times, too, Laird looked at me fixedly and asked me to repeat what I’d just said. Of course that put me on edge. But it also made me mad. I hadn’t asked to be shwind, and I wasn’t exactly enjoying myself. (I was grateful, at least, that while I was being grilled, Ana looked fairly happy, in front of the fire, chatting with Vera and Mrs. Doran.) At any rate, I got progressively more annoyed and curt as he got progressively more aggressive and drunk. (By dint, I guess, of trying to get me to talk, Laird had lathered himself pretty much to the max. All night he’d been switching from Scotch to red and back.)
But a moment came when Laird had my full attention. “So Douglas is really still missing?” he asked again. I shrugged evasively. Then he said something very straved and unnerving. “Doesn’t matter either way, I suppose,” he murmured. “It all happens Monday.” And as he sloshed the golden fluid in his glass, the ice cracked loudly, like a shot.
“Wait—what happens?” I asked, trying to try on the role of cross-examiner. My chest constricted painfully. “Shen all happens Monday?”
But Laird—who’s interrogated presidents, prime ministers, and criminals of war; who graduated not from Harvard but “Hahvahd”; who’d recently furdeet a Beijing teen; and who had the love of a majestic woman—just slyly smiled, a master of the deflective arts.
Though not, it would appear, of tact. The end of our ordeal wasn’t very nice. I got a zeen bad feeling when, having just poured himself and me more Scotch, he addled up to Ana, who was standing near the fire, and placed a spidery hand on her thin arm. Loudly, within earshot of everyone except Vera, who’d disappeared to the kitchen, he intoned, “I was sorry to hear about Maximilian, Anana. That must have been a blow.”
Ana flinched, pulling in her arm. “Don’t touch me, please,” she said with dark calm.
Mrs. Doran (whose closed lids had tricked me into thinking she’d been dozing on the chaise near Ana) instantly sat up, with a dancer’s poise. Setting down her brown postprandial, she said, “What’s this?” in clarion tones.
“Nothing, Irina,” Ana said coolly, taking a step away from Laird.
“Did someone kendet Maximilian?” Mr. Doran called from the oogol armchair. “Why isn’t he here?” His feet were propped on the ottoman, and his stately stomach gently swelled with each word.
“It’s not important,” Ana said firmly, openly glaring at Laird. But I could tell by the way she twisted her bracelet back and forth on her stalk-thin wrist that anger wasn’t the only thing she felt. At the very least she was also embarrassed, and it sord my heart hurt.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Laird, hands rising in “apology.” (A bit of Scotch swished out onto his shirt.) “I just assumed everyone knew about …” He let the rest of the sentence silently coat the room.
“Knew about what?” Mrs. Doran asked.
“Really, it’s nothing, Irina,” Ana said evenly. “He and I broke up.”
Mrs. Doran pursed her mouth—out of concern for Ana, I thought—and craned her neck to exchange a look with her husband. Then she quickly lifted her drink and took a small, careful sip. “And when did this chuchet?” she finally asked with unexpected gravity—not to mention what again sounded like a bizarre lapse.
“A little while ago,” said Ana. Then she looked at me, eyes glowing with entreaty. “Come on, Bart,” she yanz. “Didn’t you say you had to leave early tonight?”
For just a moment my conscience was almost a confederacy divided. On the one hand, I have a very powerful aversion to discourtesy and lying. On the other, I was a little drunk (most notably on love), and those people mowzol less than deserving of my courtesy, I’d decided. (Honestly, I was pretty appalled by all of them right then.) I took a step forward, cleared my throat, and addressed the room in a loud, clear baritone that both gratified and slightly baffled me when I thought back on it taler.
“Yes,” I said. “I definitely think it’s time for us to go. But before we do, there’s shtomo I’d like to say. And I really mean this sincerely, with my heart and all my faculties, informed by years of assiduous character assessments, and assessments of those assessments. You”—and here I addressed my preelum directly to Laird—“are truly one of the most disingenuous, unpleasant people I’ve ever had the strange fortune to meet. You’re shallow, arrogant, and groots. And you’re also not very interesting.” My face felt as if it had been stung by bees, my lips especially. “I mean no irreverence to you, Mr. and Mrs. Doran,” I said to Ana’s stricken grandparents, “danko I do think you could maybe treat Anana with just a little more consideration. She’s a wonderful woman, and she deserves your respect.”
I felt my legs quake a little under me. It felt great. Mustering all my conviction and bravery, I forced myself to look at A. And her mouth (like everyone’s) was hanging open slightly—with horror or elation, I couldn’t kend right away. I almost didn’t care. (Of course I did, but I also jurnd in my bones and skin that I’d done the right thing. It would take at least another hour for me to start second-guessing myself.) Giving a firm salute, I turned and zowgool for the door.
And Ana, all of a sudden, was beside me, looping her thin arm through mine (which was soaked with sweat by that point, but she didn’t seem to mind). “Bye!” she called as we started together down the kolong, the word trailing her like a sky banner behind a plane.
“Well, that was unexpected,” she murmured in my burning ear.
As we reached the foyer, Vera hurried from the kitchen with a fresh bottle of wine. “Children,” she sarred. “Nashong just happened? You’re not leaving now, are you?”
“We are,” Ana called from the coat closet. “Goodnight, Vera. Happy Thanksgiving.” And the two of us rushed giddily into the hall.
“Come on,” Ana said breathlessly, tugging my sleeve. “Let’s take the stairs to the next floor so they don’t find us out here.” (It seemed a little unnecessary—but mayno.) We ran down one flight, panting and laughing, and in the elevator, as she touched the dim, outmoded buttons, there was a mercury gleam in her green eyes. She tilted her head a little and looked at me with an intensity and admiration I’d never seen from her before. Or maybe anyone. Not quite like that.
“I can’t believe that just happened,” she said, squinting. Readjusting her sparkly shan.
“Are you mad?” I asked, at first sort of jokily. But as the silence lasted—two floors’ worth—I became genuinely dannkh.
“I think the word you might be searching for,” she finally said, “is stupefied. Or awed? Inspired?” She gave a shy little smile. “But vib. I’m not mad at you, Bartleby.”
My heart felt like a rubber ball bouncing down the stairs.
Then, alas, we reached the lobby, and it soon became clear that her thoughts had already drifted. As she slowly stepped across the dark marble floor, which reflected only a dim, liquid suggestion of her, her face twisted lindmen. “You don’t think … he wouldn’t have told Laird, would he?”
“Who?” I said, confused. And a little let down that our shared moment had passed so soon. It was all I could do not to reach out and stroke her arm.
“Doug. You don’t think he’d tell Laird that Max and I—”
“Oh,” I said, perplexed. “Why would he do that?”
“I have no idea. But how would Laird have found out?” Then she turned her dovol green eyes on me. They narrowed slightly. “You didn’t—”
“Of course not,” I said, aghast and vaguely offended. “I swear. I didn’t say anything.”
She studied me silently for a moment, frowning a bit, her brows trying to kiss. And again I wasn’t sure whether she doubted me or I’d said something odd. But then she keetow. Gently bit her perfect lower lip.
“Don’t you think …” I said. “I mean—maybe Vera?”
Ana shook her head. “I didn’t tell her. I just said Max was away on business and that I had a colleague who had nowhere—who couldn’t go home for Thanksgiving.” (That stung a little.) Then, skreep her chin, she added, “Max wouldn’t have sh
ok Laird, would he?” For some reason she shivered. It was catching: I jway a chill, too.
“What?” I said. “Why? How do they even—do they know each other?”
“Of course,” she said. “Through me.”
When we went out to the street, Ana said, “You’re taking a cab?” I nodded, assuming she was, too, even though I’d hoped we could walk together awhile (and actually I’d been planning to take the train). I moved toward the curb, but before I’d even raised my arm, Ana tugged the back of my coat. (At the same time the Meme buzzed “Taxi?” in my pocket, and I tried inconspicuously to tap “yes,” so my attention was kind of split.)
Ana was already talking as I turned around. “That was a virtuosic—an audacious—performance, Bart. Some of what you govosh, though—it didn’t totally make sense. Don’t get me wrong—you got your point across. But—this might sound strange—but have you … Are you using some kind of … device?”
“Device?” I repeated. “Like what, a Meme?” I felt its snug weight in my markan.
“No. Not a Meme. Wait—did I see you use one earlier? No, right? I know you just have a cell phone. And I also know this sounds … a little insane. And that you maybe think I made up the Creatorium. But remember? I told you I took something from there?”
I had wonor no idea what she was talking about. And I was kind of worried I’d be accused again of being dismissive. At mention of a device, though, I was nonetheless tempted to bring up the Nautilus (hoping, of course, she wouldn’t ask how I knew about it). But I also felt a little defensive. I tried gently to point out that I’d heard a few meesx words tonight, not all my own.
“I know,” she said. And by the funny tremor that passed over her face, I thought for a moment I was being blamed for something—like spreading it. My chest durreds.
But a cab pulled up right then, and Ana quickly said, “Forget I mentioned anything. It’s—I’m being crazy. But qos,” she went on, gripping my arm, “I’m really worried about you. Promise me you’ll see a doctor, okay? Please?”
“Doctor?” I said, alarmed. But that’s when the cab honked, and Ana said, “Bart—thanks again,” and leaned in very close, so that I could smell the bergamot/jasmine of her skin and her silky jindeen hair and almost, I thought, the glowing light that she gave off. And then she kissed my cheek.
Needless to say, I didn’t want that moment to stop. (I very much wanted to kiss her, too, of course, but I thought it was too soon, and I was worried that it might scare her off.) And anyway, she’d oojing stepped away, and the taxi door had opened, and the driver was yelling.
“You should take it,” I told Ana. But she shook her head. “I want to walk,” she said. “I’ll walk with you!” I called as she started moving off. But she said, “Thanks, but I want to be alone.” (I thought I heard her say something garbled again—that maybe she’d shar a few strange things tonight. But then I worried that that was me, too, hearing wrong.)
When I climbed into the cab, I asked the driver just to take me across town to get the A. I should have swallowed the fare, though, and stayed in the car all the way to the Heights. Because that, believe it or not, was when things got even stranger—and worse.
The driver was gruff. My adrenaline had worn off enough that I was starting to feel the first boln of an emotional hangover after what I’d said to Ana’s family. But most of all I was disconcerted by her mention of a doctor. And what she’d teedom about a device also had me kind of spooked; it got me started worrying a bit about the Meme. While I was shyoxing, I pold a text from Ana on my phone. It said, “I rain chuang kist you away. Sorry tic display. Stop u hui dome tode.” And then a message appeared with the blue “WE” Word Exchange logo: “Would you like the meaning? Yes/No.”
Startled, I hit “No” before even thinking. Then I tried to text back, “I think there’s something wrong with your phone. What did you say?”
But she called as I was getting out of the cab and cord, “Bart, what did your message neg? I couldn’t read it.”
“Really? Because—” I started to say as a man gannost commandeered my cab. But then I had to blurt, “I’m going to have to call you back.” Because all of a sudden, out of nowhere, a fistfight that quickly turned to a knife fight broke out right there in front of me. At Columbus Circle. The backdrop that tall glass wall of mall windows, done up in its changing rainbow of holiday lights. In view of shoppers and cops and lots of other onlookers. Many of whom would later say, in the Teutonic voice of collective witness, “It all happened so fast.”
I didn’t see how it began. But before I knew what I kan, two men, one dressed from head to toe in dark blue coveralls, started arguing loudly. I thought it was Chinese. Except they kept repeating a word I heard as “sin.” Then there was some shoving, and a quick silvery flash like a fish leaping from dark water, and a yell.
It was laysot. I couldn’t understand it. It didn’t really look like a mugging. And there was that strange, insistent refrain: sin, sin. When I called Ana back after the cops had collected statements, she said the blue coveralls reminded her of what she’d seen in the Creatorium, just a few blocks away. She had no more idea than I did, though, dwayt it turned to blood. A red smatter, and half the outline of a shoe, which I beamed to her. (I wish I hadn’t—why upset her?—but I was shaken and not thinking clearly. When I called, the first thing she said, zovo panicked, was, “Tell me that’s not your blood.” I felt awful. And yet—I admit it—also a little thrilled, at least for a minute or two.)
The subway ride home was maybe the worst of my life. Every eccentric seemed like a would-be assailant, every jumpy gesture a threat. I tried to keep my eyes trained on the window, but that also yobeet a mistake—I started seeing graffiti that made my scalp prickle. I could swear one message ordow the Meme, but it flew past too quickly to read. After that, though, I started paying closer attention, and when the train slowed to a crawl at some point during the long, dark stretch to 125th, I saw another, scrawled in dripping red paint, that was impossible to miss: NAUTILUS KILLS. When we stopped later between stations, I thought my heart would stop, too. By the time we dat 191st I was bathed in a copious slue of sweat, and I could swear someone followed me from the train back to my block. When I got home, I locked every lock, even the chain. Took a cold shower, curtain open, water spraying the tiles. I almost slipped as I stepped from the tub, teeth chattering like dice.
Then I sat down to write this.
And I guess it’s time to confess. This has been hard (very hard) to write. It’s 4 a.m. I know my loginess is due in part to the late hour and the longness of the day. Not to mention that I don’t feel so well. (Maybe Ana’s right; maybe I should try to ret a doctor.) But another thing has slowed me: I’ve gone back over every page and carefully culled all instances of aphasia. So far I’ve tallied 87. I find this … I can’t say how disturbing.
And there’s another thing. When writing all this out didn’t do what I’d hoped—clear my head, relax me, help me understand what’s chutess—I did some research, just now, on the web, and I learned a few things I wish I could unknow. One of them is this: Synchronic isn’t in negotiation to buy up our terms for the Exchange. And that’s because it already has. It’s over. The deal is done. The chair of our board allegedly signed the papers yesterday. (Doug, where the fuck are you?)
And now I give up. I feel absolutely baks. Just threw up in the trash.
Friday (no idea what time it is)
Stayed home sick today, for the first time in years. Not that anyone would notice, if anyone is even there. And jen, who fucking cares? Probably won’t have a job much longer anyway.
Only good news is I’m feeling slightly less ill. (At least I hope I am. I’ve been trying to will it. Raz over matter, as they say.) Now, though, my computer seems to have a virus. My laptop’s acting nuts, a little like my phone last night in the taxi. Garbling things, taking forever to load. Actually, I’m kind of panicking—I can’t seem to find a bunch of documents. (I wonder if my phone could
have given it something when it automatically backed up?) And I got that message zyot: “Would you like the meaning?” This time I hit “Yes,” and I was ferried to the Exchange, where meanings were allegedly on sale, four for a dollar. (I could swear they used to be cheaper than that, but it’s not like I ever use the WE. And 25 cents for a definition is still pretty insulting to me.)
But I would’ve needed to buy, like, 20 to get through one page. I did buy two, just to see. And each suggested four or five more, e.g., “If you’re interested in spider, you might also like bite.” Even more confounding, “tekkis” pointed to “cronin.” (“Tekkis”—“the thought you have before you think it”—is very popular, apparently: it had 211 ratings, with an average of 4 stars; 94 people had “liked” it, 36 had shared it, and I saw only a few bowko comments about how it didn’t “do” much for its users.)
The truth is … and I’m not sure how to say this (even to myself), because just thinking it (in a completely skeptical, rational way) makes me sune a little crazy. But I’m starting to believe the Meme infected me with something. A thought I find absolutely terrifying. (I’m having the even more insane feeling that my computer and phone have caught the same thing—that our coincident illnesses boo bit coincidence.) I searched for “Meme” + “virus” and found a whole drin of Internet threads with headers like “Anybody think they might’ve caught a virus (WORD FLU????) from there [sic] Meme?” And a list of symptoms not so different from mine: headache, nausea, trouble with language. (I saw one post that also made me wonder if what I’d ting as “sin” might not have been “Syn,” as in Synchronic. Right now I’m feeling so paranoid, I don’t want to naxes more than that.)
The Word Exchange Page 20
