Broximon leaned forward and whispered in Ettrich’s ear farthest from the old man. Ettrich listened but said nothing and the expression on his face didn’t change. Then he said, “All right, we’ll go with you.”
“Excellent. Follow me.”
He walked a few steps ahead of them and for the first minutes, Broximon continued whispering to Ettrich. Eventually Brox straightened up in his seat and asked, “Did you take John Flannery’s place?”
“Yes I did.”
“You’re Chaos?”
“Let’s say I represent the firm.”
“Aren’t you a little old to be doing this?”
The old man wiggled a “naughty-naughty” finger at Broximon and winked. “Just because there’s snow on the roof doesn’t mean there isn’t a fire in the fireplace.
“Anyway I don’t do miracles, which really is a young man’s game. So don’t ask me for one of those. Besides, the last two fellows they sent here could work miracles but look at what Vincent did to them. I loved how you handed Flannery. Oh, I had a good laugh at that. Him and that big dog. You vaporized them both. That was a stroke of pure genius.
“Everyone underestimated you, Vincent. They didn’t give you your due. I told them that; I said Ettrich is a clever man, he’s wily. Send me this time and let me just talk to him. I know he’ll listen.” He patted his chest. “Because my one and only specialty is order; tidying things up. You should see my desk at home—it’s always spotless. As a rule, old people are good at organizing things because we’ve had so much experience. Plus we don’t have much else to do.
“Take a right at the corner—we’re almost there.
“I like contracts. Treaties, ironclad agreements, and binding clauses. No loopholes allowed. No sly gaps in the fence where someone can slip through. I want things signed, sealed, and delivered. Then you know exactly where you stand. Surprises are my enemy.”
Neither Ettrich nor Broximon knew what the old guy was getting at, nor were they really listening as he rattled on. Instead they watched him—his gestures, his gait, the way he frequently turned to smile at them.
“You didn’t say what your name was.”
“You can call me Putnam.”
Down the street the flakturm came into view. Ettrich knew what it was but Broximon didn’t. At the moment however, architecture wasn’t much on his mind. When he saw the building he frowned at how strange and out of place it was. Then he went back to studying the garrulous old man in the hat.
“So I told them let me go and talk to Vincent Ettrich. Let me try to make a deal with him that we’re all happy with. He’s a reasonable man. I’m sure I can find a way. They said go ahead, give it a try.”
“And part of your deal would be to eat Broximon like a profiterole?”
“That was a joke, Vincent! I was kidding. Come on, did you really think I was serious? I didn’t have to bring you here now. I didn’t have to show you Isabelle. That was my decision—a gift to you to prove my good intentions.”
They walked up some stairs and entered the park. Immediately to the right at the top was a fenced-in soccer/basketball court. It was bustling with boys of all ages playing, running, shouting, their soccer and basketballs flying around everywhere. Sitting on benches right outside the cage were a whole other group of kids watching these games, or watching the girls that were among them, or showing off, smoking, being loud, singing, practicing bad karate moves, practicing the latest dance steps…
One of the girls sitting on a bench happened to look over and saw Broximon. She let out an ugly short high squeal and touched her face. Her girlfriends looked his way to see what she was squealing about. When they saw him they all reacted differently. One jumped up and walked quickly away into the park and never looked back. Two other girls started giggling and then punched each other to shut up.
The boys were even worse. When they saw Broximon they gaped at him or smiled either malevolently or stupidly, as if they were visiting a zoo and had happened upon the cage of some bizarre animal. Never having seen anything like this little freak in his Babby Basket, this child with the distinctive man’s face, what else could they do but stare at him until they’d had their fill?
Ettrich saw the reactions and winced. He said, “They’re just being kids, Brox. They’re all dummies.”
Every time it had happened here, and this was certainly not the first time, it hurt and shamed Broximon deeply. How the citizens of this world reacted to him made Broximon want to disappear even more. But he never said a word about it. Why should he? There was nothing anyone could do and Ettrich had enough problems as it was.
“Do you want me to make them go away? I’ll be happy to.” Putnam had dropped back to walk beside Vincent, right up next to Broximon.
In spite of himself, the little man’s curiosity got the best of him. He found himself asking, “What can you do?”
“Oh, many things. For starters, I can bring the birds down. Fun stuff. That would be entertaining. We’d have our own Hitchcock film right here in the park. You just have to say the word and we’ll have The Birds.” Putnam pointed up toward a towering chestnut tree nearby. Looking attentively, they saw that it was chockfull of crows sitting on the branches. Big fat things, there must have been twenty-five of them up there scattered throughout the tree. Oddly, they were all silent which was not like that screechy breed. Caught up in the events of their own loud busy world below, the kids paid no attention to them.
“Or rats, if you prefer something more earthbound. There are a large number of rats in this park. You don’t see them now because during the day they keep their own council. But they’re there to help if I ask them.” Putnam spoke in a sympathetic, concerned voice.
“Let’s just get out of here,” Broximon managed to say although his imagination delighted in images of all these young shitheads and their tight-jean queens fleeing screaming from waves of attacking rats and crows.
Ettrich hefted him higher onto his back and picked up the pace. “How much farther do we have to go?”
“We’re almost there. Come on.”
A few hundred feet farther on, Isabelle craned her head back to look once again at the stained gray flakturm. Leni saw Vincent first when he and the old man came into view. “Isabelle.”
“Yeah?” She didn’t move her head.
“Vincent’s here.”
“What? Where?”
Leni pointed. “There. Right over there.”
“Oh my God.” When Isabelle first saw him, she unconsciously slid both hands around the bulge of her stomach, around their unborn child. Her hands told Anjo Look, look, there he is. There’s your father. “Who is that with him? Who’s that old guy?”
“I don’t know.”
False Broximon saw his real self in the carrier on Ettrich’s back. He was fascinated but at the same time in turmoil about how he felt. That’s him, he thought, that’s me. That’s who I’m supposed to be. He felt like a counterfeit bill.
Putnam led Ettrich to a group of picnic tables about twenty feet away from Isabelle and her companions. He gestured for Vincent to sit down, his back facing the flakturm. When he did, Putnam pointed to an empty bench nearby. “She’s sitting over there, watching you. She’s smiling and rubbing her stomach.”
Vincent looked over but saw nothing. Neither did Broximon. “I don’t see anyone.”
“Yes, Isabelle’s sitting there, along with Leni Salomon and a Broximon but a bad copy of this one. She must have made it herself.”
Vincent and real Broximon listened to this but neither of them saw anything. “Prove it.”
Putnam called out, “Isabelle, would you come over here, please?”
She checked Leni who enthusiastically nodded for her to go. Isabelle walked over to the table and sat down facing Vincent. His features were drawn and thin. What had he been eating? That’s the first thing that crossed her mind when she looked across the table at her great love—He hasn’t been eating enough.
Putnam pointed dire
ctly at her and said to Vincent, “She’s here now. She’s sitting directly across from you. Say whatever you want.”
Vincent looked toward her but not at her. It reminded Isabelle of a blind person whose eyes appear normal. The disconcerting way they have of seeming to see you but not really.
“I’m still waiting for you to prove this.”
Instead of responding, the old man looked at Isabelle and waited. In time he turned back to Vincent and spoke. “She says she wants you to put both of your hands on the table, palms down.”
What was there to lose? Lifting his hands from his lap, he put them on the table. He wanted to turn and see how Broximon was reacting to all this. But Ettrich didn’t want to miss any expression on Putnam’s face that might indicate something important.
“Now look at the palm of your left hand. I’m only telling you what she’s telling me.”
Hesitantly Vincent lifted it and turning it over, peered at his palm. The word celadon was written across it in Isabelle’s sloppy but distinctive handwriting in celadon-blue letters.
“Look at your right hand.”
Written in the center of that palm was anak which Ettrich now knew was the Eskimo word for shit.
He remembered the incident at the cemetery when they both put their hands on Petras’s gravestone. Vincent was instantly transported back to the time Isabelle learned from the old man how to enter death. And later that same day when they were sitting together on the tram, how they’d held hands and played the “unknown word” game together. Unknown words like celadon and anak. The game that was only possible because of the magic that happened now when they touched.
“What do you want, Mr. Putnam?”
“Do you believe me now, Vincent? Do you believe that she’s here?”
“Yes. But why can’t I see her?”
Broximon knew the answer to that but remained silent. He clamored to get out of the carrier but knew it was not the moment to ask Ettrich to put him down.
“You will never see Isabelle here again. She is too far into death, past the point of no return. She chose to do that, Vincent. It was her decision; she wasn’t coerced. If someone chooses to go there, then they have to stay. Those are the rules, set in stone. We have no control over them.”
Broximon knew this was true. But he also knew, because he had been there when it happened, that Isabelle had chosen to go over because she had been tricked by Chaos. She had done it to protect their child. Broximon did not need to see the writing on Vincent’s hands to know that she existed in another dimension now and could never wholly return here again. It was finished. Disconsolate, he asked Putnam, “If she’s gone for good, then why are you even here? You’ve won. What more do you want?”
“To make Vincent an offer, as I said on the telephone. You see, he can still be together with Isabelle, but just not here.”
On the other side of the table Isabelle slowly straightened, like a cat rising out of its sleeping spot in the sun. Alert but uncertain, she made sure her hands were still touching Ettrich’s.
“Even if you’re here alone, Vincent, you remain dangerous to us. You know too much about life and death and what goes on in between. I’ll be honest with you and get right to the point.
“Here’s our offer—we will make it possible for you and Isabelle to be together in your afterlife dreamworld. You already died once so you’ve been through the first stage. If you agree to this, we’ll arrange to send you directly to the second stage, which is your dreamworld. I’m sure Broximon has explained it all to you by now.
“Isabelle and Anjo will meet you there and the three of you can be together forever. The best part is you will be able to create that world. Sculpt it as if it were a piece of clay, down to the smallest detail, so that everything there is exactly to your specifications. Your own personally designed heaven, Vincent. We’ll even allow you to consult with Isabelle about what she wants so that you can include it and make her happy too. It really will be your own paradise.”
Despite a million arguments against it, Ettrich chose to go in a different direction. “And Anjo? What would happen to him after he’s born?”
Putnam rubbed his hands together slowly, as if they were arthritic and he was trying to warm and make them feel better. “Anjo would grow up happy and healthy in your heaven. That’s not a bad place to be, eh? It would be your decision whether or not you wanted to tell him where he was.”
“And what would it be like when he got older?”
The old man leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. “You could give him the perfect girlfriend or wife, a job he enjoyed, a bright red Ferrari.” He smiled at his little joke and looked up at an airplane crossing the sky. “Maybe give him some kids later if that’s what he wanted, or a million-dollar house with an ocean view… things that made him content. It’s all up to you. Give him whatever he wants, Vincent. You’re the creator—it’ll be your world.”
“What’s the catch?”
Putnam responded without any hesitation, “The catch is you’ll always know. Both you and Isabelle will always know where you are, what it really is, and how you got there. No matter how wonderful you make your world, you’ll always know that it isn’t here.”
“Ha!” Broximon squawked from the Babby Basket, unable to contain his indignation.
Out on the street a car passed with all its windows rolled down. Its stereo was blasting an old AC/DC song.
Sitting on the park bench twenty feet away, Leni heard the song and smiled a little. She remembered teenage days and how she had so recently crossed a Highway to Hell in her own dreamworld.
Isabelle also heard the music but had a totally different reaction to it. At the moment the car passed, she was looking at Broximon in his basket. She asked herself When did I last hear an AC/DC song? That time I ate pizza with Simon Haden and told him some things about my past because he kept asking. She’d spoken a little about her childhood. She had told him about Brogsma, her imaginary childhood friend. How he was her constant companion back then because she was scared of so many things in life. The Brogsma she created was a fifty-fifty mix of a child her age and an adult. As a result, he always knew how to handle things because he possessed the best qualities of both a grown-up and a child. He gave her the best advice. He was funnier than anyone. No one else could see him but Isabelle so he was always at her side when she needed him. Always there to comfort her and make her feel safe when she was frightened.
Brogsma.
Broximon.
“Oh my God, he got the name wrong! He thought it was Broximon. That’s so unbelievably sweet.”
Putnam looked at her after this unexpected outburst and wondered what she was babbling about. But when she continued to stare at Broximon without saying anything more, Putnam returned to the conversation with Ettrich.
Isabelle had always known Simon Haden cared for her, but never grasped the full extent until this moment. Now she realized that Simon had taken his memories of her childhood stories with him into death and one of the people he had populated his dreamworld with was her Brogsma.
And because Simon was so snobby about what he wore, he gave the same characteristic to her Brogsma. Today he was dressed like a skateboarder for some reason, but in the past whenever she had encountered Broximon he had always been dressed exquisitely—like an English lord or an Italian millionaire. But that was only because Simon dressed that way too.
From the beginning, this beautifully attired Broximon had been there to help. He was the first one to speak to her in Haden’s dreamworld. Later when she met him in real life at Leni’s funeral he had tried to help her but failed.
She looked over at the bench where Leni was sitting next to the false Broximon. What an irony: Isabelle had created him from her memories of the real Broximon, thinking he could help her out of this mess. But now Isabelle understood both Broximons were flawed copies of a being she had invented when she was a girl.
Back then she had created Brogsma to pro
tect and comfort her. Simon had created Broximon, and now Vincent was supposed to create a whole dreamworld where they would all live happily ever after… outside outside outside. Everyone kept feverishly creating outside things to save themselves. But the door opened inward, that she knew for sure.
Isabelle remembered a line she had read recently: “You must find yourself where you already are.” She was thirty-two years old. There were so many different phases in life. So many different Isabelle Neukors had inhabited her days on earth. Why not turn to some of them now for help? Selves that had already lived and prevailed. Why not ask them for help? Why not ask herself for help?
Like sixteen-year-old Isabelle who had walked all night alone across Bombay back to her hotel because she had lost her wallet and had no money for a taxi. That brave, impulsive girl saw the walk as a fun adventure. Never once did it cross her mind that it was dangerous.
So—help me now, sixteen-year-old me. Take my place behind the wheel. Please drive this stretch of dark unknown road because I am too frightened and lost and out of control. The headlights stopped working a while ago and there is no map but that didn’t bother you half my lifetime ago in Bombay.
Or help me, twenty-eight-year-old Isabelle, who had the strength to face the fact she was an alcoholic and then the courage to admit it to the right people who helped her to save herself. Help me now, twenty-eight-year-old me.
She was again looking at the antiaircraft tower while thinking these things. Her mind spinning like a kind of turbine, these thoughts about her different past selves fueling it. Which of them could best help me now? What do I have to do to find her? Can this idea really work?
She needed strength and courage now. She also needed a version of herself who was intimate with this situation, the players and the stakes involved. Her sixteen-year-old self did not know Vincent Ettrich or very much about how life worked, for that matter. How could anyone at sixteen when life is just beginning to show its hand?
Her twenty-eight-year-old self had not gone yet into death to rescue the love of her life. At twenty-eight she fucked too many men, it was a kind of cold sport back then, and love (whatever that was) lived on another planet—definitely not the one she inhabited. What she needed now was an Isabelle her age with her resume and her scars. An Isabelle who knew most of what she knew but was undaunted by it.
GLASS SOUP Page 29
