by Laird Hunt
I’m leading a strange fucking life here, I thought.
TWENTY-FOUR
After my surgery the ward seemed to grow enormous—so that when I left my room to stretch my legs the distances unfurling before me were dizzying—then tiny—so that the possibility of stretching my legs was rendered impossible by the robin-egg-sized dimensions that greeted me when I opened my door. This torquing of the space surrounding me, which I had no doubt whatsoever was self-imposed, fortunately ended almost as soon as it had begun, so that when, on my third try, I left my room to stretch my legs, everything had resumed its natural order. It had not, however, quite resumed its natural quality. By this I mean that while before the surgery everything my eyes had gazed upon had seemed relatively dull, dreary, lackluster, matte, etc., now as I walked around the corridors I encountered the kind of visual clarity that I had until then associated with the south of France or the Greek Islands, or the beach at Coney Island on one of those beautiful September days. Everything I looked at seemed to have been polished or resurfaced. When I looked at the microwave oven set into what had been a drab alcove in the drab visitor’s lounge, for example, I had the feeling I was standing in an open quarry with a brilliant afternoon light behind me and that what I had before me was some fresh shape made of metals and minerals pulled straight out of the ground and shot through a replicator then scoured by robots with high-speed buffers. Anyway, that’s the direction in which my thoughts tended as I took in the microwave, the marvelously vivid lime and mauve textures of the old couch by the window, the sharply delineated lines of the bits and pieces of detritus—fuzz, dirt, latex glove, a torn business card belonging to a real-estate photographer whose name and number were missing, etc.—scattered here and there across the floor.
Despite all this visual finery, and the exhilarating sensations I got by taking it in, however, I didn’t feel at all well. In fact, I was forced to hold my side and hunch over a little as I maneuvered around the visitor’s lounge to peer at this and that, so I was unprepared—and this unpreparedness gave me quite a shock, in fact forced me to fall over onto the gleaming couch—when Aunt Lulu, who had probably been there watching me all along, seemed to appear next to the refrigerator.
Aunt Lulu, I said.
My goodness and gracious, Henry, she said.
I just had surgery.
Well it certainly does look like you just had something. Surgery? How awful.
Aunt Lulu smiled. I couldn’t quite believe it. A row of fresh clean choppers beamed out of her face at me.
You’ve got teeth, Aunt Lulu, I said.
I beg your pardon?
Your mouth—it’s full of teeth.
Well of course it is. Listen to you. Why wouldn’t it be?
I didn’t answer, because I was taking in the rest of her. She had on a snug green polka-dot dress and green heels and was dangling a pocketbook with a gold-chain handle on her wrist. Her hair, which I had only ever seen more or less plastered to her head and dripping with grease, or in week-old worn-out curlers, was done up in a kind of bouffant, and her eyelashes were as long and curved and dark as some of the thoughts I’d been having.
You look different, Aunt Lulu, I said, hoping that the irony of the understatement would get through loud and clear. If it did, she didn’t give any sign of it.
I heard you wanted to see me again, she said.
Who said that?
A kind of horrifying little pouty expression appeared on her face then vanished.
Don’t you want to see me? she said.
No, I thought. Then I thought of standing up, started to, then decided I’d better wait until I had rested a little. Not least because I didn’t want Aunt fucking Lulu with her bouffant hair to see me groan and fail.
I’m always happy to see you, Aunt Lulu, I said. Have you met Dr. Tulp yet? She’s the one who just operated on me. They used a local anesthetic. It didn’t work very well, didn’t quite do the trick. I told them that. Told them I could feel the scraping. That it felt like they were using a rusty straightedge to shave my heart.
Is she in charge here, Henry?
I don’t know. You look different to me, Aunt Lulu. You’ve done something with your hair. You’ve got a clean dress on. You look like you’ve slimmed up. It’s bright in here. And hot. Don’t you think it’s hot? Do you want to speak in tongues?
I stuck my tongue out and tried to say a few things.
Henry, she said. She waved her hand back and forth a couple of times through the sparkling air then flipped it over, snapped her fingers to her palm, and inspected her long green nails. In the brilliant light, the tips of her fingers looked like emeralds under a halogen bulb. When, satisfied with the first hand, she switched to the other, my eyes moved with hers.
I was staring at her fingernails when she said, ah, there you are.
At first I assumed she had said this to me, that she had decided that the best way to remedy the not-promising interaction we had going was to pretend that, rather than sitting motionless on the couch, sort of hunching over my side and staring at her hands, I had just walked into the room. I was no more sure what to make of this than I was of how she looked and sounded, so I just kept staring at her hands. But she wasn’t talking to me at all.
Hello, Lulu, Mr. Kindt said.
Aris, I’ve just been chatting with Henry, she said.
Mr. Kindt came around the couch, patted me on the knee, then stood on tiptoe and kissed Aunt Lulu on both cheeks. They smiled at each other, then Mr. Kindt turned so that they both were facing me. He too was preternaturally lit, and even though I found myself being swept by a rising surge of nausea—which I had been told to expect following my surgery, but that I attributed to the sight of Mr. Kindt and Aunt Lulu standing together—it’s also true that the combination of her green nails and his blue eyes, which reminded me of the burning-blue, backlit orbs haunting the heads of the spice-eating desert dwellers in David Lynch’s film version of Dune, was mesmerizing.
We met in the hallway as I was leaving last time, Aunt Lulu said.
Mr. Kindt nodded. I thought I would take your aunt on a tour of the ward today, Henry, show her some of the sites, get her acquainted with our little stomping ground.
But then I’ll come back, Aunt Lulu said. After all, I did come to talk to you, Henry.
What on earth, Aunt Lulu, could we possibly have to talk about? I wanted to ask. The majority of me, including my vocal apparatus, however, seemed to want only to sit there, unmoving, unresponsive, legs slightly spread, hands in my lap.
Likely sensing that I wasn’t up for an active discussion anymore, Aunt Lulu said, you are tired, nephew. Your friend Aris here can entertain me. We’ll walk around and then I’ll come back and see you.
Her nails shone even more brightly as she said this, and her brown eyes seemed to have caught some of the fire in Mr. Kindt’s.
I want to discuss a thing or two with you, Henry, she said. I want to talk to you about some things, including the way I understand that you have been portraying me to the good people here, discussing my appearance and comportment as if we didn’t all have good and bad days. I want to talk about that in some depth, Henry.
She took Mr. Kindt’s arm, and they stepped forward so that they were only a foot or so away from my kneecaps.
I thought I’d show her the garden, Mr. Kindt said. I haven’t been out there today. Perhaps we’ll see some birds. Do you smoke, my dear?
Oh yes, I love a good smoke, Aris, she said. Let’s go and do just what you propose—let’s see the ward and smoke in the garden and you can show me the birds if they are around. You can introduce me to the various people here, including Dr. Tulp, who I understand is Henry’s primary care physician. Especially Dr. Tulp, who I trust can give me a fair and accurate accounting of my nephew’s condition. And then I want to come back and speak directly to him. I want to speak to him about his portrayal of others and about his character. I want to see what he has to say about that. I want to talk to my nep
hew and pick his brain a little on some of these subjects and give him the opportunity to pick mine.
Then I want to sit with him, very close to him if he still isn’t feeling well, and talk to him about the circumstances of my death. I’d like to ask him to describe it, to tell me what it looked like from where he was standing. He was right there, Aris. Right there in the doorway.
Ah, said Mr. Kindt.
And he didn’t move a muscle, so I imagine he had a very clear view of what happened. He was a very interesting boy, Aris, always full of opinions and never hesitant to share them. I’d like to hear what he has to say. There is a great deal—isn’t there, Henry?—to discuss. We can put our heads together and talk about the past and our relationship and about the way—let’s call it abrupt, my god yes it was abrupt—that Henry here helped cut it off. Sound good?
Sounds brilliant, Lulu, Mr. Kindt said.
Both of them beamed at me.
Toodles, Aunt Lulu said, grazing my scalp with her nails as they went past.
Oh fuck, I said.
All the wonderful light seemed like it might start scorching the room.
TWENTY-FIVE
The rising sun was dribbling rivulets of light into the troughs of the crosstown streets when I left the little room behind the tattoo parlor on Orchard and made my way back to The Fidelity. Mr. Mancini was asleep with his head in his arms on the front desk when I came in, which was a shame because I was in the mood to crow a little about my night. In fact, I was so eager to let Mr. Mancini know what I had gotten myself up to after leaving Grand Central—without providing details of course—in Tulip’s arms as we lay on the AeroBed on the floor in the corner next to the low shelf with the burning ylang-ylang candle, and, spurred on by contextually vast expanses of exposed skin and numerous murderous propositions, created friction, that I stood a minute in front of him, doing a little bit of a shue and spin dance on the cracked tiles of the entryway and staring at the swirly roots of the thick dark hair covering the top of his cinder-block-sized head. However, when thoughts of crowing a little—who’s the shitface now that I scored with Tulip?—gave way to—wouldn’t it be nice to maybe knock this guy on his ugly egg with a phone book and see if he wakes up smiling?—I decided I should probably skip the Mr. Mancini interlude, which would just end badly anyway, and go up to my room.
I woke coughing a few hours later. The air had been all but replaced by a noxious mix of tar, motor oil, and old chewing gum, which meant that one of the hot dog vendors who kept his cart in the storefront attached to The Fidelity had forgotten to extinguish his coals, and the fumes had come up the air shaft. Since the guy who leased to the hot dog vendors was Mr. Mancini’s brother-in-law, the only thing to do about it was get dressed, listen to a wide-awake Mr. Mancini snarl preemptive disclaimers through the nasty smile that was already, even at 8:30 in the morning, plastered onto his face, and get out.
So I hit the streets a little more blearily than I might have liked, and this bleariness contributed, I have very little doubt, to the gradual nosedive my spirits took over the course of the morning. It wasn’t, at least not at first, that I no longer felt pretty fabulous about my late evening exertions with Tulip: I did. It’s just that part of my pleasure in contemplating the proceedings on Tulip’s AeroBed, proceedings that had lasted beyond any reasonable expectation, was mitigated by a sense of disbelief that gained ground as I sipped coffee on the bench outside Porto Rico on St. Mark’s Place, chewed a bagel I got on B, and read part of a Wolverine comic book I retrieved from a trash can on Seventh, and that was confirmed when I stood in front of a mirror in the men’s room in a café on Third and A.
Wait a minute, uck, there is no way Tulip did that voluntarily, is what I thought.
Now, it wasn’t as if I hadn’t made an effort since I had gotten into murders, despite the challenges presented by living at a dump like The Fidelity, to keep myself more or less presentable and to acquire some new clothing. In fact, at that very moment, I had on my favorite green rooster T-shirt, a pair of fairly clean, nicely rumpled linen pants, and some acceptable leather on my feet. But the truth was, even if it was possible that I was heading toward brighter days and a better look, I hadn’t gotten there yet. Not even close. I tried to imagine lasciviously sidling up to myself, failed, and had to splash water on my face. Fortunately, splashing water on my face made me think of Mr. Kindt and thinking of him, especially in this context, helped. Tulip did, after all, spend a tremendous amount of time around our benefactor, who, despite the odd feature or two, was, let’s face it, despite those special aspects, no gorgeous picture himself. I might, I thought, actually be just exactly what the doctor ordered for Tulip, just the perfect soup, the loveliest piece of pickled fish, the most extraordinary, because so unusually textured, chunk of baguette. I had, after all, enjoyed the company of a girlfriend who had loved me, or put up with me, for a very long time, and she had been far from some kind of kook or tasteless slouch. True, I had been in much better shape in those days, at least until that period at the end when it all collapsed, when it all came crashing down on me. Until that time I had without a doubt been what she once referred to, while we ate steak frites—my treat—at Belmondo, a “most satisfactory companion,” but still.
There were other things from the previous night to think about as I walked around that morning, little things—to do with Cornelius, and Mr. Kindt, and the nature of Tulip’s relationship to them—that, as you will see when I discuss the night of the murder later on, further problematized this question of the authenticity of Tulip’s regard for my physical person, and I did kick them around some, but mostly I considered, and mostly, in the end, fought off, doubts of a principally aesthetic nature.
Then I got hungry. The morning had closed up shop so I opted for a slice. Two Boots was, happily, just across the street when my stomach started grumbling. I sidestepped between a couple of parked Toyotas, let a few cabs shark their way by, and made for its welcoming doors.
Two Boots on Avenue A is one of those terrific spots that purists—partisans of Ray’s this and Ray’s that—turn their noses up at, but after too many years of getting burnt by the too-often mediocre results of tradition I had come to love it. At Two Boots, you can have your so-called plain slice with just the right amount of marinara and not too much cheese, or you can put your money down, as I like to, on one of the many slices with unusual names: The Night Tripper, Mel Cooley, Mr. Pink, Mrs. Peel, Big Maybelle, and so on. I had in mind a slice of Bayou Beast (shrimp, crawfish, andouille, jalapeño, and mozzarella), one of The Newman (Soppressata, sweet Italian sausage, ricotta, and mozzarella), a few shakes each of Parmesan, oregano, and hot pepper, a large, well-iced fountain Diet Pepsi, and a seat at the back booth by the john. I saw all of this as I crossed Avenue A, then felt and smelled and tasted it—for some reason the icy imagined Diet Pepsi coming up under my top lip as I sipped between imagined bites was particularly vivid—and, in short, worked myself into the kind of minor frenzy I began experiencing during my rougher days in the city whenever low blood sugar or whatever had kicked in and, money in pocket, I was minutes away from food.
Gratification was put off by a beleaguered-looking couple making the classic big production of getting out the front door with a stroller. I sort of theatrically stepped aside and swept my arm out to let them know that I wouldn’t be interfering, in any way whatsoever, with their forward baby-propelling propagation, and they both said thanks so simultaneously that I couldn’t help blurting “jinx.” This made the woman laugh and the guy smile. The baby, who had a lot of blond hair for such a shrimpy customer, let out a squawk, and they were off.
I only mention this because as I stood at the counter surveying the Pinks and Beasts and Big Maybelles, thinking that they ought to add a Mr. Kindt to their lineup, a kind of prestige slice with cracker crumbs and pickled herring on a white pie, two people said “I got it” at the same time, and a third voice, older, gravelly, accented, familiar, said “jinx.” Given that I never say �
�jinx” and that I haven’t heard it said in years, I turned to see who had spoken. But just then my order was taken and, because I occasionally frequented Two Boots and knew some of the guys there, a little chitchat was indicated, and by the time my slices were up and I had taken a spot not in the back, but in one of the big booths on Avenue, the “jinx” thing had slipped my mind. It came back to me though when the two “I got it” guys burst into conversation in the booth behind me about some book one of them was reading called Stranger Things Happen. Deep into the baked aquatic mysteries of my first bite of Bayou Beast, I half expected—in that bleary mind-fried way—the one who was reading it to start talking about Mr. Kindt or maybe the contortionists. Instead he went into a detailed description of a story about a ghost who can’t remember his name, which elicited a few too many guffaws from his companion for me to relax and enjoy my slices, so I moved to the table by the front door where, even though you have to stand and the foot traffic is pretty steady, the experience would be relatively untainted by over-easy joke-trued book talk.
As I was standing there an old guy wearing a fedora and a wife beater came over with a slice of Mel Cooley, slapped a Miller down on the table, and, in that vaguely familiar voice, asked me to slide over the oregano.
