“That’s awful Samuel. You’re abusing…”
“Woah, enough,” the Mad Hop cut him off. “You think death makes us holy? If I had the necessary skills, I wouldn’t have to take advantage of innocent Charlatans.”
“And you can’t just find a dead portrait artist?”
“I’ve got nothing to give them in return.”
* * *
In the ninth room, the Mad Hop pointed to a side table, flaunting his familiarity with the subject matter. “That’s where he sits. Between Michael and Ahmed. Come.”
But when he asked, the fat American smiled and said Nigel had left.
“Bloody hell, found himself a convenient time to wake up, did he?”
“At least you won’t have to go on lying to him,” Ben offered.
The Mad Hop pointed to two empty chairs to the left of Ahmed. “Let’s eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Yes, you bloody well are,” the Mad Hop said. “Wait for me here.”
Ben obeyed and took a seat beside Ahmed, trying not to stare at the blue-suited people stuffing themselves with dozens of different dishes. A tired voice to his left said, “You mind moving to another table?”
Ben, embarrassed by his nudity, responded with his head bowed. “Excuse me?”
The tired voice became thorny. “It’s hard for me to eat in peace when just a few feet stand between me and a naked guy.”
Ben looked away from him and found a small table on the other side of the dining room. Thankfully, the four chairs tucked in by the table were unoccupied. However, less than a minute after he sat down, a finger drummed his right shoulder. An aged and cantankerous voice said, “Sorry, sir, but you’re in my place.”
Ben thought that if he ignored the voice the pest would move on and find a different table. To his chagrin, the finger drummed his shoulder a second time and the voice only got louder. “Excuse me. You’re in my seat!”
Ben closed his eyes, only to feel warm rancid breath in his right ear. “Are you deaf or are you just pretending not to hear?!” the man yelled.
Ben whipped around, pounced on the old man, pushed him to the floor, and screamed. “Listen to me you rancid old fuck, what the hell do you think…”
The old man’s plate flew out of his hands and he shielded his face. “Don’t hit me,” he cried.
Ben looked down, sure he had made a mistake. “This can’t be. I’m mixing you up with someone else.”
The old man screeched. “Don’t hit me, you scum.”
Ben yelled hysterically, “Just let me see your face. I’m not going to hit you. Just let me see your fucking face.”
The old man refused. Ben pulled the pair of gnarled hands apart and then brought his own hands to his face. “I don’t believe it. I don’t believe it.”
The Mad Hop walked in, carrying two plates of steaming vegetables. “I leave you alone for one second and the first thing you do is accost an old man? Ben, you have any idea how bad you look right now, with all your bulging muscles on top of this old geezer?”
“You don’t understand,” Ben sang out. “Do you have any idea who this is?”
Before he got an answer, Ben gave the old man a hand and helped him to his feet. “You have no idea how excited I am to meet you,” he said, introducing the man to the Mad Hop with great pride. “This exquisite man here is my favorite painter, Rafael Kolanski.”
“Painter?” the Mad Hop said.
“If this is how you show your veneration…,” the artist mumbled, bringing his face close to Ben’s shocked features.
“What, what are you doing?” Ben asked.
“I know you,” Rafael said authoritatively, and then, allowing some scorn to enter his voice, “You’re the husband of that woman … The one who threw a birthday party for the dead woman. I remember you from the picture.”
Ben’s face blanched. “How do you know I threw Marian a birthday party?”
Rafael kept the scorn in his voice. “Your friends came to me, said they wanted to surprise you. They asked me to draw a portrait of you and your wife.”
“What?”
“Yes. I told them I don’t do portraits. And if you’re really a fan of my work then you know I’m not lying. Now leave me alone.”
“Not likely,” the Mad Hop said, turning away from his food. “Ben, this must be your lucky day.” A jack-o-lantern grin on his face, he turned to the artist. “Mr. Kolanski, you’re going to stray from your usual routine and draw a portrait.”
The artist opened his eyes wide and asked Ben, “Who is this ridiculous dwarf and why is he insisting on making me laugh?”
“This ridiculous dwarf is Samuel Sutton, the famous private investigator, and he’s helping me look for my wife and, as far as I can tell, he’s asking you to paint her portrait.”
Rafael seethed. “Over my dead body!”
The Mad Hop maintained his smile. His voice sugary, he said, “Mr. Kolanski, I wonder, have you any idea where you are?”
The artist answered with a rebellious shrug. “Not where I belong. I know what’s going on here. It’s some kind of sick hallucination. Something to do with the dead.”
“Something to do with the dead,” the Mad Hop repeated. “Mr. Kolanski, this is the world of the dead. And you were absolutely spot on when you said you didn’t belong here. It’s not yet your time to strip off the blue suit. But bad luck has it that you’re stuck here with us.”
“What am I supposed to make of that little sermon?”
“That if you don’t lend a hand, you’ll be stuck here for some time.”
Seeing the disappointment smeared across the artist’s face, the Mad Hop winked at Ben. “Right then, Ben, seems we’ve got a mule on our hands. Let’s go. I suppose he really doesn’t have all that much to go back to. There are enough talented artists around that actually miss life.”
Ben nodded and the two of them started across the hall. The old man’s refusal lasted for seven strides. “Wait!” he called out.
The Mad Hop turned around, a warning finger raised. “I’ve got no time for mucking about. If you promise to draw Marian, you’re back to your life tonight. If you change your mind, I swear you’ll never see…”
“Bessie,” the artist said, “Sweet Bessie. You promise I’ll see her tonight?”
The Mad Hop extended a hand and proclaimed, “Mr. Kolanski, I promise you, you’ll be in your beloved Bessie’s arms tonight.”
Rafael succumbed to his outstretched hand.
* * *
Four hours later, the three of them sat opposite the Mad Hop’s TV, nailed to the frozen image on the screen. Rafael asked them to leave the room while he worked, and they happily acquiesced. His voluminous demands had already taken a toll. Only after going into half a dozen shops, looking for the proper brushes, paints, canvas, and easel, did they return to the Mad Hop’s house, at which point the artist announced that he must eat. After feasting on the vegetarian banquet the Mad Hop prepared for him, he made Ben swear that he would tell no soul, living or dead, that the portrait was a Kolanski. Then he booted them out of the room.
Waiting in the adjacent office, the two sunk into the couch and woke up thirty minutes later to the sound of the Announcer. Ben signaled to his friend to keep quiet as he crept toward the room, put his ear to the door, and listened to the artist kvetch. “Prostitution. That’s what this is, Bessie. I swear, prostitution. Only for you would I do this vile work. Portrait! They have no shame.”
The artist kept his complaining up for hours, jabbing the canvas with a particularly limp brush, dunking his fist into the color palette and knocking his knuckles against the canvas, dotting it as he perfected his despised work of art. When he felt that Marian’s eyebrows had become too sharp, he spit right between her hairy arches, softening them, and when it seemed her smile was overly sweet, he scratched the scarlet lines around her lips with his sharp nails. Done at last, he peeked at the TV screen, then back at the canvas, and grimaced. After swearing he’d nev
er undergo this type of humiliation again, he opened the door and called them.
Deaf to the two men’s appreciation, Kolanski allowed a smile only when Ben pointed to a small beauty mark above her left nostril. “What’s this?”
The artist clarified. “Since we’re dealing with a particularly amusing case of cherchez la femme, the portrait will now entice you to look for her. The painting is meant to remind you that your real wife cannot be captured by any painting. The slight lack of accuracy is meant to spur you to find the real thing. This loathsome portrait is a replica with a tiny unreliability that will temper your excitement each time you look at this face. It’s functional art at its lowly nadir. The beauty mark will keep sleep at arm’s length until you find the wayward lady and then, I hope, you celebrate with pure vandalism and trash this painting.”
Ben nodded. “Samuel, we should get going.”
The Mad Hop mumbled affirmation, left the office, pulled a pen out of one of the drawers, and invited the others to join him.
* * *
For over an hour he led them far from the ornate circles at the city center, through back alleys and hidden lanes, explaining that they were heading to the borderlands between his city and the one beyond it.
As they passed the last building in December 1986, Ben asked what they were doing along the borderlands. The Mad Hop said they were looking for the edge.
The threesome stood before a long white path, dividing 1986 and 1987. The Mad Hop claimed it was the border between cities and that all they had to do was follow it to the end. They walked along the white asphalt path for a long time. When at last the Mad Hop told them to look back, they were surprised to see that the skyscrapers had disappeared and that the old surroundings had been replaced by a broad field of cotton.
“What the hell?” Ben asked and then fell silent. A thin black line dawned in the distance.
“What’s that black line?” the artist inquired.
“That’s the horizon,” the Mad Hop responded, “and if you cross it there’s no way back.”
“What’s over the horizon?”
“A void,” the Mad Hop said, giving the word a chill.
Forty minutes later, the Mad Hop stopped the artist five steps shy of the black line. “Your left hand please.”
The artist agreed, not sure why the weird PI was scribbling a few words in his tickled left palm.
“Don’t read what I wrote. Not now. Wait till you get there safely. And, at any rate, know one thing for sure, as soon as you leave this world, you won’t remember a thing about its existence.”
Rafael looked across the line. “These white things,” he asked, his voice wobbling, “are they…?”
The Mad Hop came close. “Clouds,” he said dryly.
Rafael refused to move. He wouldn’t jump without knowing what awaited him beneath the clouds, without a guarantee of his safe landing, without being certain that the midget wasn’t up to an evil trick.
* * *
The howl he emitted when he realized he was not on safe ground reverberated in their ears, even as they covered them and looked at each other in horror.
Ben yelled, “I think I’m deaf.”
The Mad Hop apologized. “It’ll go away soon enough. We should’ve picked cotton balls. They always yell like that when they start to sail into the unknown.”
“Why the hell did you push him?”
“Because if we waited for the gentleman to do the honors himself, he would’ve gone to the white room first.”
“And had I jumped?”
“You wouldn’t have been able to.”
“And what did you write on his hand?”
“I’ll tell you later. Let’s head back to the apartment. I reckon the canvas has dried and you need to take it back to your place.”
“To my place?”
“Yes.”
“You said it would help us search.”
“Mentally.”
“Excuse me?”
“Don’t tell me you thought we’d reproduce the portrait and hang it up in trees all over town. Kids would rip it right off. And I imagine you understand that if we put it online we’d be swamped with messages from bored psychopaths all over the Other World. We’re not running a police investigation here. I’ve got my own ways of finding a missing person.”
He stopped and surveyed Ben’s face.
“Don’t look at me like I’ve gone mental. Ben, go home and hang that picture on the wall. That way you’ll have a palpable reminder of the woman you’re looking for. Without the picture you’d be a full-on addict for the tapes and you’d never leave the house. Can’t have that. You see?”
“I’m not sure. You’re telling me that all that mess in the restaurant and with Kolanski was just so I could hang a picture of Marian up on my wall?”
“So that you don’t come back home from a long day of searching and spend the night in front of recorded memories. That temptation must be obliterated.”
“But how the hell do you plan on finding my wife?”
“Come over tomorrow afternoon and we’ll talk about it. I’ve got a few other clients, you know…,” he said, yawning.
“Okay, so what now?” Ben asked.
“Now? Now you go home, hang the picture on the wall, and stare at the artist’s brilliant beauty mark,” the Mad Hop said, tossing the pen off into the dark horizon.
13
Stigmata
“Ormus, I mean, Yonatan. It’ll take me some time to get used to your real name. It’s only been two days since our first date and I’m still trying to calm down. I found you flat on your back. A major heart attack. I called an ambulance but the big hospitals were full because of the bombing. That’s why you’re here, at this small hospital. Truth is, I have no idea what they did. All I know is that when you came out of surgery, they hooked you straight up to life support, and now everyone’s just waiting for you to wake up. I wonder what Rushdie would say—even he never dreamed that when Vina and Ormus finally meet, Ormus would be unconscious. It’s strange, but when I first saw you, I wasn’t surprised. I had a strong feeling that you didn’t look the part of the knight in shining armor. But it felt good. I already had one of those guys—looked like a million dollars but wasn’t worth a penny. Anyway, what am I blabbering about? You know all about him. What else do I have to report? As you can imagine I haven’t totally acclimated, although on Tuesday I interviewed Gabriel Din, the plastic artist whose work is going to be exhibited at the Biennale. Fascinating guy. Apart from that, I’ve been getting calls every couple of hours from my friends back at the Paris office, checking that I’m still alive. My boss’s been asking where I disappear to twice a day. Obviously I don’t tell him. It’s like those stories I used to read in the papers and crack up. I couldn’t believe they actually happened. And it’s not just us, Yonatan. You wouldn’t believe what happened here two hours ago. Really intense drama just over on the other side of this room. So, I guess you have no clue who’s lying in the other bed, also hooked up to life support? Rafael Kolanski, the famous painter. From what I understand, he’s been here for the past six weeks. He had a brain aneurism of some sort. They were supposed to disconnect him this morning. They’d given up hope. His wife was here and the weird nurse who’s been caring for you, and the hospital director, a lawyer, and two other nurses. I peeked through the curtain that divides the room. I had to see it. The scene reminded me of Greenaway. Or Polanski. The lot of them huddled around his bed like some kind of mystical sect, everyone saying a few words, except for the wife, who stood there in silence, shaking. The plug was to be pulled at ten. When they were done, the small nurse made her way over to the side of the bed and put her hand on the switch. The time was one minute to ten. The artist’s wife took his hand in hers and continued to tremble. I swear I could hear the rattle in her teeth. Other than that there was total silence in the room. I don’t know how many seconds passed but all of a sudden we heard a giggle. Rolling and cute, girly. Everyone looked around trying
to discover who was behind the tactlessness, only to find that the old woman, twenty-five seconds short of widowhood, was giggling like a little girl who had just pulled off the most delightful of pranks. For a second I thought that, you know, she had lost her mind. The hospital director asked her why she was giggling, and she said, ‘He’s … tickling … me.’ Of course I didn’t understand what she was saying but they explained it to me afterwards. Then she went stiff, stopped laughing, and called out, bemused ‘he’s tickling me.’ The thickheaded nurse must have been daydreaming or something, because she still had her hand on the switch and was ready to flip it. The doctor shouted, slapped her hand away. She turned from the machine and, like everyone else in the room, stared at the old man’s hand. After that I had a hard time telling what was going on, but there was plenty of hooting and hollering and I was able to tell that his pinkie was moving. Amazing, no? A man’s life was saved because his pinkie came back to life and at the perfect time. After that they started to celebrate, even ordered champagne. Bessie, the artist’s wife, asked me to join them.
“His awakening was thrilling. When he opened his eyes, she went wild, crying, laughing, letting out all that had been bottled inside for weeks. I drank the bubbly wine with them and heard the doctor say that what happened was a medical miracle. Everyone started to trickle out and I told Bessie I was really happy for her. She thanked me and listened to the doctor’s orders. He told the artist to take it easy, saying he would have to run a few tests and that in the meanwhile he may have trouble speaking. The old man was so cute, he acted like he’d just come back from Mars, smiling with half his mouth at his happy wife. Once the doctor left, only the nurse remained in the room with Bessie and the old man.
“Yonatan, I really felt sorry for her. She went up to Bessie and tried to shake her hand but she ignored her. The nurse couldn’t take Bessie’s withering looks any longer. She left the room. I came back to you, sat by your side for something like five more minutes, and then heard a sudden shriek. I ran over to see what had happened, scared he had fallen back into a coma, but it was nothing like that. I asked Bessie why she looked so ghastly. She said that if she could kill the nurse, she would. I smiled knowingly, even though I didn’t really understand what made her yell like that. Then she shrieked again. ‘Look, look what that needless piece of trash did.’ She raised the artist’s left hand and asked me to look at it. Yonatan, it was so weird. Right in the center of his palm, in blue ink, it said ‘There’s Life After Death.’ In English. Under different circumstances, I would’ve burst out laughing. But just then I understood why the old woman was so angry. She says that the nurse wrote those words on his hand because, as someone who thoughtlessly pulls the plug on human lives, she wanted to soothe her own conscience, and also, to raise Bessie’s spirits, so she’d know that she’d be with her man again, you know, like in all those ridiculous stories about lovers reuniting in paradise. I tried to calm her down, but she was furious. She said she was going to talk to the hospital director. An hour later she came back into the room, a Napoleonic smile spread across her face. The director suspended Ann, that’s the nurse, for a week without pay. A slap on the wrist to appease the artist’s wife. Bessie said that at first the director didn’t believe her and that he called Ann to his office and questioned her. She swore she had nothing to do with it. Bessie pointed to the pen Ann had in her hand and asked what more of a smoking gun he would need. Ann looked baffled and said that everyone has a blue ballpoint pen. Between us, Yonatan, this is no Minette Walters story. It’s obvious she did it, although I should say that my gut feeling is she had an ulterior motive. At any rate, the director apologized to Bessie and asked for her discretion in the entire matter. He said Ann was one of the best, most devoted nurses he had and that he didn’t want a one-time slip to tarnish her reputation. Bessie agreed and the controversy passed. Small, sweet doses of revenge always help settle things down. Bessie went to freshen up and Ann was sent away for a week. I guess one of the other nurses here will replace her and take care of you for the time being. Actually, Ormus, Vina’s got to go, too. Got to bang out an article on the reading habits of children in the age of Harry Potter. Seems like an interesting thing to look at—do Israeli kids read other books, outside the realm of J.K. Rowling, great as she may be? Darling, I hope you don’t mind that I have to go now. I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon. I’ve got two exhibits and a movie. Just remember, honey, you owe me an Indian meal.”
The World of the End Page 13
