But it had made a mistake. Chaos recognized only itself in people. It dismissed all other human qualities as either useless or flaws. Chaos understood the chaos of love, but not the bond. The anarchy of art but not the harmony or communication it creates. It knew that sometimes it was color blind to certain human qualities but it didn’t care. It could not see them because they were off the scale of its perception. Like high whistles only dogs can hear. That’s why from time to time it made someone like John Flannery and sent him into the world awhile. There were certain errands, certain tasks that needed to be done by a real live human being. “People things” that could only be accomplished by people.
Here’s the irony—Leni was brilliant in any crisis. Flora frequently joked that she wanted her best friend nearby when World War Three started. Because Leni would be the calmest person around and know exactly what to do while the earth melted around them.
Looking into the kitchen and seeing John kneeling in front of an exact replica of herself, Leni thought calmly This is a joke, a trick; John arranged this scene to freak me out.
Across the room her other self spoke. This woman, this copy, wearing the same outfit she’d taken off and hung on the back of the bathroom door minutes before, now spoke to Flannery. What it said was impossible to understand. The imposter’s language was unlike anything Leni had ever heard before. The quick dissonant jangle of sounds spilling out was eerie. High and melodious, they sounded almost like a kind of birdsong. There was real music in it, but something was wrong with this music. It sounded sort of pleasant but mostly off—as if it were being played on false instruments like a paper trumpet or a violin made of cloth. John replied at length in the same language. Then there was a rapid-fire back-and-forth between the two of them. They conversed.
In the middle of it, the other woman abruptly stopped speaking and looked straight at Leni. But it did not see her because unlike their first encounter hours before, there was no chaos in Leni now. She was composed and still. She saw something bizarre happening and understood that John was part of it. That’s all. As usual in an urgent situation, she did not allow her mind to go beyond those facts. The other woman broke eye contact and started speaking again to John in their private mad language.
Leni took two slow steps back from the doorway, a hand behind her to touch anything back there that might be in her way. She was naked beneath the robe and wore only a pair of cheap red rubber sandals that she kept at John’s place. How happy she had been the day she bought those silly things, knowing what she was going to do with them. How exciting it was later to tell John that she was leaving them in his apartment because it was more convenient. Both of them knew however that it had nothing to do with convenience. The sandals staying there was her way of staking a small claim to both his property and his life, which at the time appeared fine with John.
His back still to her, his full attention was on the other woman. Leni knew that as soon as John became aware of the fact that she was there, she was lost. She had to get to the front door, open it silently, and then run. She stepped slowly backward, carefully and as quietly as she could. But her bad leg kept making trouble for her balance. It was Leni’s worst enemy now, messing up every move. For years she’d thought of that leg as her retarded sister, the one who never left her alone and ruined or broke everything it touched. Her constant companion, the leg forever demanded her attention but gave back only discomfort and embarrassing situations. She hated it and herself for never having grown enough to ignore its drag on her soul.
While John and the other woman talked, it was easier to move toward the door. Leni could not do it soundlessly; that would have been impossible for anyone. But the noise of their conversation made hers less. Taking a quick look over her shoulder, she was elated to see how close she was to the exit.
Something John said appeared to anger the woman. Her voice rose to a scald and the strange-sounding words flew. Flannery looked up for the first time, but the women screeched and his head quickly dropped down again.
What was she saying? How could he understand it? Who was this imposter? Who was this man? Almost at the door, almost free, Leni’s heart and mind staggered at that thought, that question: Who was John? What was happening here when everything was supposed to be so different today? Love, passion, but now also the confusion that she felt about him welled up inside Leni and overflowed her banks. There was nothing she could do to stop it even though she knew she must escape.
The dog opened its eyes. Raising its giant head, it did not turn and look at the woman sitting nearby at the table. It did not look at John Flannery. The Great Dane opened its eyes and stared directly at Leni.
In her purse on the bathroom floor were treats for the dog. She brought it something to eat or play with every time she came to visit. One of her favorite things in their relationship was to accompany John when he took Luba for a walk along the Danube Canal. Because of her bad leg they could never go far. But the dog seemed perfectly happy to lie at their feet while they sat on a bench, the three contentedly watching the river and the world pass by.
“Is your leg bothering you again?”
Leni froze. At first she didn’t recognize the voice although it was clearly addressing her. It wasn’t John’s voice nor was it the other woman’s. But it was very familiar; her memory knew it although she hadn’t heard it in a long time. She turned just as a hand touched her shoulder, making her flinch.
Her father stood nearby wearing his beloved Brooklyn Dodgers baseball cap, work shirt, and faded khakis. The clothes he always changed into when he came home from the office. The clothes he had been buried in after he died four years before.
“Papa?” He was so real, so very there next to her that she forgot where she was and her predicament.
But by then Leni Salomon was already two minutes dead. Seeing her father was the beginning of her own afterlife. How did she die? She was killed by Flannery, or the Great Dane, or the other Leni Salomon. Which one was actually responsible for the act doesn’t matter. The moment the dog opened its eyes and saw her, confused by her great love for John, she was murdered before she even had a chance to be afraid.
She was found later slumped on a park bench by the Danube. According to the police, she’d had an aneurysm and died instantly. Her mind had popped.
Isabelle’s watch stopped working in the middle of Leni’s funeral. She looked down at her wrist because she couldn’t bear to look straight ahead one second more. Straight ahead was the coffin of Leni Salomon, about to be lowered into the ground forever. Just that thought was unbearable, much less the visual confirmation. Looking at the amber-colored wooden box and knowing what lay inside it was unbearable.
Vincent stood on one side of Isabelle while Flora stood on the other. Flora had not let go of her hand once during the ceremony. Oddly enough, neither woman had cried. Vincent noticed this but was not about to ask why. He knew how much they had adored their dead friend. If their grief for her was silent, then so be it.
He also knew that wherever Leni was now, she was all right. Like an amnesiac slowly regaining his memory after a traumatic blow to the head, Ettrich had begun to remember bits and pieces of what death was like. As he had said to Isabelle, most of these memories came to him like bad, out-of-focus photographs. He would stare at them, turn them this way and that in his bafflement, wonder what they were, what they meant, where they were taken. But a few of the pictures were clear and distinct. Ettrich had begun carrying a small notebook in his pocket in which he wrote down things he thought relevant to these memories; or associations between them and his hunches.
What he didn’t grasp was that one small part of his mind worked light-years faster than the rest now, accelerated even more so when he was in physical contact with Isabelle. This part of him had recognized important details in these “photos” and gone on to make fundamental connections. Racing ahead of the rest of his conscious mind—seeing, analyzing, and filing—this super-perceptive sense was one of several thing
s he had unknowingly brought back with him from death. Right now however it did him almost no good because he was only beginning to recognize it and its messages.
For example on the first page of his notebook, amid an array of memory fragments, lists, and free-association doodles, he had written Flannery. But when he wrote it, a name that had come to him out of nowhere, Ettrich thought it referred to Flannery O’Connor whose short stories he had loved as a student. On the seventh page of the notebook in a corner he had drawn a first-rate cartoon of a Great Dane.
This highly developed part of his mind knew that he and Isabelle were in danger and even where the danger came from. But no matter how brilliant or informed it was, it had no way of conveying the warning to him directly. This was not death where a Broximon or Bob the Bear could break the rules to help. Ettrich was alive again and here he would have to discover things on his own.
Nevertheless he was the first one to see John Flannery at the funeral that day. It was held in Weidling, a village about five miles from Vienna. The bucolic crowded graveyard was at the edge of town alongside a narrow curving road that led into the Wienerwald. Leni’s family had a plot there.
Cars were parked haphazardly all up and down the road because there was no cemetery parking lot. As a result, the only space Ettrich found was far away. They’d had to walk back quite a distance, arriving just in time for the beginning of the ceremony. Along the way they passed a celadon-colored Porsche Cayenne. Vincent recognized the color and smiled briefly. He was about to mention it to Isabelle but remembering the solemnity of the occasion, said nothing. He looked back at the car twice though as they walked on, both times saying the word celadon to himself.
Ettrich had never liked Leni Salomon and vice versa. So he felt vaguely guilty going to her funeral while feeling little more than the conventional sadness for someone who dies unexpectedly and much too early. Leni had always been aloof and curt toward him as long as he knew her. The first time they met, he felt disapproval coming off of her like waves of cold off someone who has just come inside from a February day. Things never got any warmer between them either. He knew she was aware of his affair with Flora, and that Flora had subsequently introduced him to Isabelle. Did Leni dislike him because he had gone from one of her best friends to the other? Had Flora said nasty things about him after their relationship ended? Or was there some other reason why Leni had never made any attempt to disguise her dislike for Vincent?
As he walked down a short hill into the cemetery with Isabelle, he remembered the summer night a whole bunch of people had gone to a heurigen in Sievering to drink new wine and eat the delicious fried chicken served there. It was a happy gathering and the wine made things even nicer. Halfway through the evening Ettrich found himself sitting next to Leni. They had a spirited interesting conversation about their favorite books. It was the first time he had ever felt the slightest glimmer of interest from her. At one point he lightly touched her elbow with two fingers to emphasize an idea he was expressing. The moment contact was made, she snatched her arm back while a look of such dislike flashed across her face that he was both stunned and deeply hurt.
It was the last time they ever spoke at length. After that, he heard about Leni and her life from Isabelle who frequently spoke of her friend with the greatest love and respect. Ettrich listened as neutrally as he could to these stories and anecdotes but in the end he still didn’t think much of the lame pretty woman.
They walked across the graveyard toward a sizable crowd gathered at the door of a small open chapel. When they were almost there, Flora came out of the crowd and over to Isabelle who she embraced for a long time with her eyes closed. Ettrich felt awkward and uncomfortable in their intensely emotional presence. He didn’t know what he should do or say. He and Flora had made their separate peace long ago. Still, whenever they met he often saw her face tighten and her smiles turn into the patently fake ones politicians wear.
He thought it best to give the women room to talk and console each other. He slowly moved away from them, always checking Isabelle’s face and body language in case she suddenly signaled for him to return. He drifted to the back of the crowd, just close enough so that anyone observing would know that he was here for this funeral. He watched as the two women walked hand in hand to the coffin and each in turn bent down to kiss it. Although it was done in public, Ettrich had the feeling that there was no one else out there then but the three friends having their final conversation. Even this far away he felt like he was eavesdropping.
Turning around, he looked out at the rest of the cemetery. Scanning the tombstones, one eventually caused him to squint and move his head forward to see it better. When he was sure what he’d read was correct, he walked over to the stone and stared at it with a combination of respect and sadness. It marked the grave of Arlen Ford, the American film actress. Earlier when they were driving here, Isabelle had mentioned that the movie star was buried in this cemetery. Ettrich wasn’t aware that she had died. A wave of nostalgia hit him while he went through a fast mind-shuffle of the films Arlen Ford had made and how much he had enjoyed her in them. They had even used his car in one of her films.
On the gravestone beneath the dates of her birth and death was a quotation in English. He read it several times and liked it but had no idea what it meant.
“I’LL COOK YOU SOUP AND HOLD YOUR HAND.”
He assumed it must have been a famous line from one of her films.
Sighing, he lifted his eyes from the grave toward the sidewalk and street beyond it. Standing up there was a big bearded man. No, he wasn’t big—he was fat. Well, not really fat. He was… it was hard to say what he was from that distance. The man appeared to be watching Ettrich and smiling. Or maybe it just looked like that. He wore a black suit and a white dress shirt but no tie. The outfit made Vincent think he had come to attend the funeral. But the guy didn’t move at all—just stood there and smiled. He appeared to be waiting for something. Maybe he was someone’s driver. That made sense. Maybe he was someone’s chauffeur. Whoever he was, it wasn’t polite to stare at him and really there was no reason to. Ettrich turned away and walked back to the funeral.
Seeing this, John Flannery frowned. He was genuinely disappointed that Vincent Ettrich didn’t do something, anything, to demonstrate some sign of recognition or unease. Flannery had wanted a more concrete, more delicious frisson from their first face-to-face. Instead, he had only gotten a couple of long looks and then Ettrich walked away. What kind of bullshit showdown was that? Shrugging it off, Flannery reached into his pocket, pulled out a fresh horsemeat sandwich, and bit into it contentedly while watching his lover’s funeral begin.
He liked the taste of horsemeat; something he had acquired while living in Vienna. It was sweet and strong and vaguely disgusting. Knowing how much Leni loved horses, he had once cooked her a meal using a big filet of horsemeat as the centerpiece of the recipe. She tucked right into it, had a second helping, and never once asked what kind of meat she was eating. Flannery had enjoyed doing things like that to her. He would persuade Leni to tell him her secrets, dreams, and fears. Then without her ever knowing it, he would take these intimate fragile things and shove them back up her ass in furtive and creative ways. He would have done the same to Flora, but all that cow ever seemed to want to do was fuck.
He liked a dab of sweet Kremser mustard on his pferde leberkase; a fresh roll, tangy mustard, and a nice thick chunk of boiled horse. When he had finished the sandwich and licked the remnants off his shiny fingers, he entered the graveyard and walked over to the funeral. He knew Flora’s husband was here today. But Flannery wanted her to see that he was there, or that “Kyle Pegg” was there, so that she would be touched by his secret support in her time of sadness and need. He’d learned that about her from Leni: Flora Vaughn was bad in emotional situations. She had a tendency to break down and lose control. It was useful information to know. And vice versa naturally—From Flora he learned many handy tidbits about Leni. Best of all, from bo
th women he learned most about Isabelle Neukor and Vincent Ettrich, which was the whole point of course.
Flannery enjoyed cemeteries. He relished their tidiness and artificial beauty because he knew both were the result of fear and dread. Not the love people felt for their deceased. To him cemeteries represented the useless pathetic gestures and shrines human beings made to try and ward off the big bad wolf of death. Fat chance of that happening. It’s gonna git you, kiddo, no matter how many calla lilies you lay on Mom’s grave this time, next time, or any other time.
It was not really death people feared, but the unimaginable chaos it might bring. He could smell that fear, the longing for order forever, but most of all the desperation people brought to any cemetery whenever they came to visit.
It was always the same: first they laid their wreaths or bouquets on the grave, thought awhile about dead Dad, wept some, and then the good stuff started. One day I’ll be in a place like this too. They would look around at the peaceful surroundings as if seeing them for the first time, trying to imagine that fateful day, all the while knowing full well that wherever they went after they died wasn’t going to be a cemetery. Next came the inevitable predictable questions like what is death? What if it is horrible chaos? What if there really is a Hell? All those endlessly delicious cliches that stirred people up into a tizzy or down into a black funk by the time they left here for home after their little visit.
Especially the old people—they were the best. Walking toward the crowd, Flannery looked for any oldies because they were invariably the most fun to watch at a funeral. Won’t be long now, eh, Grandma? Are you really weeping for the dead or for your own skinny, unnoticed, wasted life now that it is five minutes from finished? The proof is right there in front of you, darling. Can’t do much carpe dieming when you know that every tomorrow is iffy for you. Typically, the old people either cried bitterly or else their faces were the most expressionless as they listened to the priest talk about the world to come.
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