GLASS SOUP

by Jonathan Carroll

  It was the beginning of the end for him although he didn’t know that. Life, which had so mysteriously and unfairly favored him, turned against Haden with a twitch of its nervous tail and was never his friend again. Until his fatal heart attack less than two years later, he would only see its ass-end and never again the head.

  Luckily business called him back to America and he was able to flee Vienna and the lovebirds he had so unwittingly helped to unite. However that didn’t stop him from thinking and often dreaming about Isabelle. Sometimes it felt like his mind was a drafty room and she was the wind slipping in through too many cracks. No matter how much he tried to stop it, she always found a new way to sneak in and touch him.

  Why her? Why this woman and not one of the countless others he had known? Who knows—ghosts choose us, not vice versa.

  Two nights before Haden died he dreamed of her for the last time.

  Once when they were having lunch together she described something she’d recently read that she couldn’t get out of her mind. In the time of the Roman Empire, one of the favorite forms of execution was a horror called the tunica molesta. A shirt was dipped in pitch, naphtha, or something else highly flammable. The condemned was then forced to put the shirt on and it was set ablaze. Nero was especially fond of using it on Christians. Haden sort of knew who Nero was but was most impressed by the fact that Isabelle read about things like torture shirts.

  In one of the last dreams he ever had, Simon Haden dreamt about a tunica molesta. Only here he was the victim and the “shirt” was Isabelle Neukor. He would have thought the idea of wearing Isabelle was great, asleep or awake, but his dream didn’t agree.

  In the middle of the night he woke curled in the fetal position, clutching a crunched-up pillow with two hot sweaty hands. In his dream she was all over him like fire—like napalm burning him everywhere. She crackled and spat, she was fire. His pain was so real and intense that Haden’s cries would have awoken anyone sleeping nearby.

  And while he burned she spoke to him. He could distinctly hear her voice somewhere, insistent beneath his screams. She was saying things as she killed him. How could these flames or torture shirt or whatever she was be a woman? But dreams have no rules—they make them up as they go along.

  When he woke from this nightmare and knew at last that he was safely back in his world, his reality, he shivered down his whole body. What he had just experienced was pure terror. One of those dreams you remember a long time afterward and pray will never return.

  He tried calling Isabelle in Vienna to chat and ask for her take on his dream, but no one answered. He’d had no contact with her since the night she met Vincent. After a third attempt with no luck, he realized she wasn’t answering the phone because she was probably out somewhere with Ettrich. Haden’s mouth tightened at that thought and he didn’t try to call her again. A day later he was dead.

  “Would you like to see him?”

  “Who, Simon?” Instinctively Isabelle slid both hands over her belly, as if to protect her unborn child from even the suggestion of meeting the dead.

  Jelden Butter winked and removed the straw from his mouth. “He’d be easy to find.”

  Broximon had his hands in his pockets and was looking at the ground. “That is not a good idea.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t think she’s ready for it yet, Jelden.”

  “But why not let her try, Brox? What could happen?”

  Broximon made a sour face that clearly said the idea was ridiculous. “What could happen? Don’t be stupid—you know exactly what could happen.”

  Listening to these men talking about her, Isabelle felt totally confused. “What are you two talking about?”

  Jelden looked at her. “Do you want to see Simon, Isabelle?”

  “No, not particularly.”

  Broximon clapped once. “Good—then that ends the discussion.”

  In a sincere quiet voice, Jelden Butter said, “You should see Simon.”

  “Shut up, Jelden. Leave her alone.”

  “Really you should: if for no other reason then for your baby.” The yellow man tipped his chin toward her stomach.

  Isabelle stiffened on hearing that. She was about to ask What do you mean? when she blinked and was instantly back in the restaurant toilet in Vienna. She stood in the middle of the room, facing a bank of white sinks with silver mirrors above each. Reflected in all of them, she saw herself and the gray doors of the toilet stalls behind her. She could not catch up with what had just happened. Her mind was still back there, wherever Broximon and the Butter Man were. Looking at her reflection in one of the mirrors, she thought again about what Jelden had said—if for no other reason then your baby. What did he mean? Why would seeing Simon Haden again be important for her unborn child?

  She continued looking in the mirror, no longer seeing herself there but replaying what had just happened to her.

  “Hey you.”

  Isabelle turned slowly toward the sound of that well-known voice. Vincent Ettrich stood holding the bathroom door open with his left hand. He was the only person she wanted to see now but still couldn’t bring herself completely back to the moment. “Hello.”

  “What’s going on, Fizz?” From behind him came the sounds of loud disorder. As if something big had just happened in the restaurant and people were still buzzing from it.

  The noise distracted her. She hesitated but knew sooner or later she would have to tell Vincent everything. “Did you know that Simon Haden died?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t care. I want to know what’s going on with you.”

  She moved toward her lover. “You might have to care about Simon if you want to know what’s going on with me.”

  Jelden Butter and Broximon were arguing about Haden when they came upon him. Jelden wanted to tell Simon about meeting Isabelle, Broximon did not. Both had good reasons for their positions and it would be interesting to see which one prevailed. Haden didn’t like either man very much but after the episode with Mrs. Dugdale, he had finally learned to listen when spoken to by anyone here because sometimes it helped him to figure things out.

  He was sitting at an outdoor café eating a large serving of chocolate pudding with walnuts (his favorite dessert—just the way his mother used to make it). Both of them waved at him and then glared at one another, knowing exactly what the other was thinking.

  “I know what you want to do, Jelden, but don’t.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “How many times do I have to repeat this? Because he’s supposed to discover these things himself. That’s the whole point of his being here.”

  “Yeah well, Isabelle is gone. How is he supposed to discover her if she’s not around? Hmm?”

  Jelden was six feet tall. Broximon was six inches. Yet somehow both of them felt a hand on their shoulder at exactly the same moment. They turned and there was John Flannery a foot away. Behind him was the giant black and white dog, Luba. It stared at Broximon a little too intently.

  “Gentlemen.” Flannery had his arms crossed over his chest. The same thought dashed through both men’s minds: He just had his hand on my shoulder. But how could he do that with his arms crossed? Flannery saw Haden looking their way so he waved. Haden waved back with his spoon and returned to the pudding.

  “You were discussing what to tell Simon?”

  Who was this guy? How did he know what they were talking about? Neither had ever seen him before. But he radiated attitude like heat off a summer highway and that definitely meant something here.

  At the moment Broximon was more worried about the Great Dane than Flannery. “Is that dog safe? Shouldn’t it be on a leash or something?”

  “Safe? No, Broximon, she is not. Luba would eat you in one second if I told her to. She’s stupid but very obedient. The perfect combination.” Having said this to the little man, Flannery slowly looked the yellow one up and down as if he were a desirable woman. “ ‘Jelden butter on your plate helps to make
the morning great.’ But you also smell, Jelden. Are you aware of that? If you put open butter in a frig, it absorbs the smell of everything in there. And that’s you now—you smell of everything. It’s not very nice.

  “And you’re not going to say a thing to Haden, Mr. Butter. Do you understand? Not a word about Isabelle, not a word about anything.”

  “Who are you?”

  Flannery grinned. “You don’t want to know who I am. Know what I mean?”

  “Oh but I do. I really do want to know.” Jelden said this in an unpleasant, challenging voice.

  Despite the other’s nasty tone, Flannery perked up as if he’d heard exactly what he wanted to hear. “Okay. I’m King of the Park.”

  Jelden paused to see if he was going to say more. Then he sniggered. “You’re what?”

  “I’m the new King of the Park. Does that help? Do you know what that is?”

  “No. Am I supposed to?”

  “Well, if you don’t it means you’re dumber than Luba here and that’s saying a lot because she is very fucking dumb. But hey, that’s okay. Broximon, do you know what it is?”

  Brox put up both hands, palms out in total surrender. He didn’t know what King of the Park was and he didn’t want to know. The way Flannery said it in a deep, amused-in-a-scary-way tone of voice meant you didn’t fuck around with the King of the Park. Broximon started to speak. Because he was frightened his words got faster and faster until he was almost unintelligible. “No, but that’s okay. I mean I’m easy with this stuff. Really. Live and let live. King, queen, pawn… they’re all fine with me, you know—”

  Flannery slowly put an index finger to his lips to shut Brox up. He shut up. Jelden looked at the little coward with loathing. Broximon saw that and silently mouthed the words Eat me.

  “I don’t think I can trust you, Jelden. And that’s the whole basis of a relationship. So it’s time for you to die.”

  “Oh really? Well, uh, you can’t die here, King. Because this is death, in case you didn’t know.”

  “True, but things can die, Jelden. You’re a thing. No problem with you. Watch this.” He cupped a hand to the side of his mouth and called out to Haden sitting twenty feet away. “Hey Simon, no more butter, okay? It’s gone.”

  Haden didn’t even look up from his brown dessert. He only nodded and raised his spoon to indicate that he’d heard.

  Jelden Butter disappeared. Broximon couldn’t say how it happened beyond from one second to the next he was gone.

  “Ho-llllllly shit—”

  “Little Simon Haden put Jelden butter on his toast every morning when he was a boy because he loved their commercials on TV. He insisted his mother buy only that brand at the market. He’d sing those jingles to himself when he was alone. But no more. All he remembers now is margarine: how his Mom used margarine on everything because she read it was much healthier. No more Jelden butter,” Flannery said.

  Broximon looked like he was going to flee or pee any second. “You can do that? Even here you can erase his living memory? Even when he’s dead?”

  “I told you—I’m King of the Park.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “You already said that. Know what the Russians say? ‘Every bastard meets his master.’ Bye bye, Jelden. Come on; let’s go talk to Mr. Haden.” He picked up Broximon and put him on the dog’s back. When Flannery moved toward the café, the Great Dane followed at a slow slink. Petrified, Broximon could only mutter “shit shit shit” under his breath and try to grab on to something fur to keep from falling off.

  As usual Hietzl sat on the backseat of the car intently watching the two humans in front of him. The Range Rover was parked at the top of the Vienna Woods on a turnoff near Cobenzl. It was one of their favorite spots because it offered a spectacular panoramic view of Vienna and the plains beyond leading all the way to Hungary. They especially liked it on clear summer nights when they brought a picnic along and sat in one of the huge rolling meadows up there, eating and talking and watching dusk fall while the city lights flickered on far below them.

  Now both of them were quiet, facing forward. Isabelle had been talking for a long time. She had told Vincent everything about her three trips to the strange land. She described what she had seen and her feelings about what she’d experienced there. Most important she had told him about meeting Broximon and Jelden Butter. How Jelden had called the place “Simon Haden Land” and said how important it was for their son that she meet with the dead Simon.

  When she had finished a tense silence followed, which was very rare for them. Vincent sat slumped in the passenger’s seat, fingers laced behind his neck and one foot propped up on the dashboard. Whenever they were together Isabelle always drove because he loved the way she handled a car.

  He turned to her. “Why did you think I wouldn’t believe you?”

  She took a deep breath and let it out as a slow, slow sigh. Tears came to her eyes but she held them in check. “All I want is for us to be together so we can raise this child.”

  “Agreed, but there’s a lot more to it than just that.”

  “Yes, obviously, but why did they choose our child? Why did it have to be Anjo, Vincent?”

  “Well, for one thing I’d still be dead if they hadn’t chosen our child, sweetheart.”

  Despite herself, she chuckled. “That’s true.”

  “Tell me again what they said about the place being ‘Simon Haden Land.’”

  While Isabelle repeated that part of her experience, Ettrich stared straight ahead and squinted. Narrowing his eyes always helped him concentrate. But soon after she’d begun her account, he began shaking his head as if something were wrong with it. He interrupted. “Okay, okay, I’ve got it. Was there anything else you saw when you were there? Anything that might be relevant? Not just this time either—any time that you ‘blinked.’ Tell me about the strangest things you saw.”

  She hesitated while running the experiences through her head, picking what was worth retelling. But then she surprised herself with what she said. “Do you know what was most strange; the most amazing thing? How it all fit together so seamlessly. Like today—I met a man made of butter. But after the first shock of seeing someone like that, two minutes later I was arguing with him. I wasn’t thinking He’s made of butter. I was only thinking This guy is an asshole.”

  Ettrich had died alone in an anonymous hospital room. No one he loved or even knew was there to say goodbye or sit and hold his hand through that final ordeal. His only company was doctors and nurses and the elderly man with whom he shared the room. Both patients had terrible, ruthless cancers that ate through their insides like salt on ice.

  Ettrich’s wife of many years knew he was dying but loathed him so much by then that she refused to come. Nor would she allow their young children to visit either. Because not long before being diagnosed with the terminal disease, Vincent Ettrich had abandoned his family to be with Isabelle Neukor. But in the crudest irony of his life, she rejected him and he was left with nothing. Soon after he became ill.

  “Vincent?”

  “Yes?”

  “Was it like that where you went when you died: the seamlessness of it?”

  He was about to answer her question when he heard something outside which made him sit up fast. Throwing open the door, he got out of the car and walked a few steps away from it.

  “Vincent?”

  “Ssh.” He put up a hand to silence her.

  She had no idea what he was doing but still obeyed his brusque command.

  His hand stayed frozen in the air, his head tilted slightly to one side as he listened hard to something. Opening her door carefully so as not to make noise, Isabelle stepped out of the car. She thought if she was outside then she might be able to hear whatever it was too.

  It was summer and what she heard were everyday summer sounds—cicadas whirring, the snarl of a distant lawn mower, a child’s voice shouting somewhere, and a truck going slowly up through its gears. Then after a pause she heard the no
ise of something skittering on metal. Turning, she saw their dog jump awkwardly down from the car. After stretching, Hietzl came over, sat down next to her, and looked at Ettrich.

  “Do you hear that?” He spoke with his back to her.

  “What, Vincent? What is it that you’re hearing?”

  “Listen carefully. You could miss it because it’s very far away.”

  Setting her mind to it, Isabelle listened to everything around her as intently as she knew how. She tried to be totally in the moment, only listening, undistracted by thoughts or questions or other concerns. But to her dismay she heard only cicadas and the lawn mower which then suddenly stopped, leaving just the insect buzz.

  “Fizz, you don’t hear anything? You don’t hear those insects?”

  “Of course I hear them! Is that what I’m supposed to hear—bugs?”

  The expression on Vincent’s face changed dramatically. “You do hear them?”

  “Sure. So what?” She thought he was joking—how could she not hear that close clamor?

  “Tell me what you hear.”

  “Cicadas. You know—that high chirring sound they make.”

  Staring at her, his face said he didn’t know if he believed her yet. “And it sounds far away?”

  “No, right here around us. It’s very loud.”

  “That’s loud to you?”

  “Yes.” She didn’t like the tone of his voice. “What, Vincent? What’s going on?”

  “Those aren’t cicadas you’re hearing—it’s the dead. Some of the ones you brought back with you when you returned from there.”

  “How do you know that?”

  He looked at her sadly. “Because I remember that sound from when I was dead. It’s one of the few things I do remember about that time.”