We were wholly unremarkable in a bar full of after-work drinkers. We found a corner table and I spied myself in the mirror, overly made up (a gesture toward disguise) and with the naïve confidence of inexperience. He smelled of winter and cleaned his steamed glasses, then drank with a thirst. His hands were slightly too soft looking and boyish, but, with nicotine-stained fingers, unsettled. He was nervous. I guess he always had been.
When I answered his question about where I worked he could hardly contain himself and told me about his book. (Curiously, he lied about the plot.) I assured him that I would look for it and make sure it got into the hands of an editor.
As the warmth of the bar worked into his bones and the alcohol his blood, Tracy relaxed. We took to talking about many things, including his continued work at the school and how he felt it was leading him nowhere. We laughed at the underwear incident, and without any encouragement he apologized for the day I followed him, with no hint of accusation in his voice. I could see that he was more drunk than I was.
Now was the time to get out. I’d had my fun, I’d taken my dare respectably far, there was no need to continue. I would leave and write to him in the next week. I would tell him that if his manuscript ever saw the light of day, I would testify to make sure he was imprisoned for statutory rape. But some memory of old affection kept me where I was. Or maybe in this game of chicken I had plenty of dare left in me. I could go much further than this. After two more drinks he was blind drunk and slurring, and I was well on my way. I suggested we go and eat and he took care of the rest. As we staggered out into the street, he said he was too cold and asked whether I minded passing by his place so that he could put on another layer. I followed him up the stairs to his apartment. It was a sad one-room affair with a separate kitchen and bathroom. The sofa was a bed and hadn’t been put away. The walls were lined with books.
Having shut the door behind us, he pushed me lightly against the wall and kissed me. It could almost have been romantic; it could almost have been my teenage fantasy. But there was a slight aggression as he rubbed his crotch against my hip that reminded me why I was there; how far would I take this? There was something perverse and victimlike about him, something cruel as well; it all added up to a sense of disgust in my gut. He had his hands under my clothes and was pushing me toward his bed. He undid my skirt with unexpected dexterity.
I pushed him back forcefully. It wasn’t my strength that stopped him, but the look on my face. This was the point where I chickened out. It was over. And then he started crying.
I stood amazed as he wallowed in inconsolable self-pity. “I deserve to die,” he slurred and sputtered. “I deserve to die for what I have done.”
I wondered for a second whether he had somehow known why I was there. I really was about to leave, but he’d hooked me back. Challenged my cowardice, and I found my second wind. I can go further. I should go further. “Don’t be too hard on yourself,” I taunted him, testing the water. I could definitely go a little bit further.
“When you read the book you’ll know,” he said.
“I know already,” I said, and pulled him up. “I know everything.” Power raced through my veins. I put my arms around him and kissed his neck. “I know everything,” I said.
“I deserve to die,” he teased.
I pulled the straight pin from my hair and lined it up an inch and a half behind his ear, where the vertebral column enters the skull. I had sharpened the end to a point earlier that day. All that stood between his life and its end was tender tissue and my nerve. I kissed his neck and he wept.
For those who have never killed, the sanctity of human life must seem like an impenetrable fortress protecting us all. There is something immature about finding the will to commit murder. The decision to pass from fantasy to the action of killing is brutal and dehumanizing, it’s the logic of an undeveloped mind. I held my breath and jumped.
In a small burst of violent movement, the hairpin sank into his neck and his body turned to heavy liquid and ran through my arms to the floor. I yelped in panic. He watched me, paralyzed, like the dreams where you can see everything but you control nothing. A sense of calm and acceptance overtook him. There was something simple and almost pure in the warmth and goodwill he felt toward the girl standing over him in panty hose, her skirt on the floor next to her. He wished her everything, he wished her well in everything. He was able to relax and clear his mind and now he was sitting in a large, dimly lit room with a wooden floor and several light-colored canvases on the walls, and words came through the silence to his head; a song or a poem. They were so beautiful. It was a shame not to be able to write them down.
I couldn’t breathe. I squealed, holding back a full-blown scream. I called to him, but he didn’t move; maybe he was faking it to scare me. I shook him but there was nothing. I felt the blood leave my head and a dizzying nausea overcome me. I rushed to the bathroom and vomited.
When I got back he was still there. A minute before he’d been standing, crying. A minute before he’d been alive. My hand had traveled such a short distance. There was so little separating then and now. And now he would never stand up again, never speak. Never ride his bicycle.
I couldn’t stop myself from crying. I’d never heard myself sobbing like that. It sounded put on, but there was no one there to witness my dramatics. And as I cried I dragged my thoughts together. I retrieved my hairpin and dark blood spilled from him, diffusing on the floor, expanding gently like an opening flower, deep and red. I heaved streams of tears as I scrubbed the toilet to get rid of all traces of my vomit, then I wiped all the surfaces. There was nothing more I could do. I left, pulling the door closed behind me. I went home to sleep and cried in my dreams. When I woke I was an adult. I carried more weight, but I was stronger; my performance enhanced. Having taken life, you either crumble with the pain of understanding the gravity of your actions, or you can turn the page and move on. But never can you escape the new truth, that life is not protected by God or the easily perverted laws of man; our existence, so tenuous, is protected by nothing more than a thin layer of choice, like tissue paper. Death is present in us all.
I mailed the manuscript back to Tracy’s address with a standard letter of rejection.
18
Yogurt and the East Village Gardening Association
The next day my luggage arrived, but that was small comfort. I woke up feeling irritated and stared meanly at the ceiling for a long time, then I turned on the television and watched until boredom drove me back to the ceiling. I considered that I missed Butterfly, but that was just confusion, like thinking you want to sleep when in fact you are thirsty. Nothing made sense. Not only was Tomomi Ishikawa dead, but she had tarnished my memory of her and now I couldn’t even miss her. I thought of phoning Beatrice, but she didn’t want me to, so I wrote her a text message that I promptly deleted. Then Cat slinked along the fire escape and jumped in through the open window with hesitant precision. He carefully chose a place on the bed and settled down. ‘Things are a bit crazy here,’ I told him, and went back to sleep, heavy and unnecessary. When I woke he was gone.
* * *
It was four in the afternoon. I showered, shaved and put on clean clothes, which felt good. But I had to keep blocking out thoughts about Butterfly and her dead. I went out and ate in a pizzeria, then afterwards found a bar with an outside table, sat down and wrote and drank pints of beer. My legs told me I should get up and walk somewhere. I wandered until I found a Japanese restaurant on Avenue A. I ate sushi to my heart’s content and drank a small pitcher of sake. On the way back to the hotel I went down the steps of a basement bar, wrote some more in my notebook and drank two pints. That was my day.
At eight the next morning I got up with a thick head and drank as much water as would fit in my stomach. I had barely fallen back to sleep when I got a text message from Beatrice saying, ‘Are you up yet?’ I wondered whether it had been sent to me in error and thought of ignoring it, but wrote back, ‘Kind of. How you
?’
‘Better 2day. What bout U?’
‘Arsey.’
‘What the hell does that mean? Wanna meet up this afternoon? I could come 2 yo hood. How bout we get coffee @ your breakfast place?’
‘Arsey /’a:s i:/ colloquialism. UK. adj. grumpy. From Anglo-Saxon arse meaning bottom. Breakfast place sounds cool. What time?’
‘Ha-ha. 2 o’clock.’
‘OK. See you later.’
I went back to sleep.
* * *
On my way to meet Beatrice I checked my email. Streetny had got slack and didn’t even bother with a formal introduction.
To: Benjamin Constable
From: [email protected]
Subject: From Tomomi Ishikawa
Sent: 08-23-2007 12:49 (GMT -6)
Ben Constable,
You must be building up a horrific picture of me. I sometimes wonder if it was fair to choose you to bear the grim secrets of my past. I really couldn’t say what you’ve done to deserve it. I could almost stop now and leave you in peace, but there would be things unfinished. I feel I should follow this through and tell you everything.
But not today.
Today’s prize is about simple New York pleasures. I was going to bury it in a favorite green place, but suddenly suspected you might need a break, so there are no clues or need for digging equipment today. New York has hundreds of tiny gardens that people have converted from vacant lots—more than Paris, I think. One such spot that has played a significant role in my past, as a place to pull up a few weeds and read a book or two, is the community garden on the corner of Sixth Street and Avenue B. I was never a member myself as I didn’t live in the right neighborhood, but I was fortunate enough to have a fond acquaintance with an old lady called Iris who is chairperson of the East Village Gardening Association and very trustingly let me tend her plot on numerous occasions when she was out of town or just for fun. As well as for its lush trees and plants, it is notable for a work of art in the form of a sixty-foot wooden tower decorated with abandoned toys. If you go one afternoon, you will almost certainly find Iris, as she spends them all there. I should mention that she has had a tracheotomy and, despite much training with one of those vibrating machines, cannot speak, so don’t ask her too many questions. Tell her your name is Benjamin Constable and that you are a friend of Tomomi Ishikawa and she will give you something.
Suddenly I am tired and pity myself. I fear you will hate me. My reflection is beastly with fearful blackened features; a savage face. I do love you, Ben Constable. I’m sorry if I’ve made you sad.
Butterfly
I checked the IP address. It had been sent from New York about three hours previously. I printed the message and took it with me. By the time I got to the café, I was twenty minutes late and felt bad, but Beatrice was in an easy mood and smiley, sitting on the terrace, wearing big sunglasses.
‘Hey, what’s up?’ she said.
‘Very well, thank you, and yourself?’ I said. ‘Sorry I’m late.’
‘No problem. Hey, I’m sorry for the other day.’ She sipped at a clear drink through a straw. ‘I was feeling no good.’
‘That’s all right.’
‘Today it’s you, though,’ she said.
‘I’m not sure how much fun I am.’
‘Oh well, you can’t be fun every day. Have a drink.’
‘I’m wondering if I should just go back to Paris now.’
‘Have you done as much as you want about Butterfly?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Do you want to be on your own? I’ve always got stuff to do. I don’t mind.’
‘No, I’d like to hang out with you. I have a thing I’d like to do, though. It’s near here, I think.’
I handed her the printed-out message from Streetny and she scanned through it in a couple of seconds.
‘It’s a cute place,’ she said. ‘I think you should have a break from this crazy stuff, though. Once you’ve got your thing, I suggest we go to Central Park. It’s pretty, nothing to do with Butterfly and very New York. Every visitor should see it at least once.’
‘Sounds good.’ I smiled. ‘Should I get a drink or shall we just go?’
‘Get a drink,’ she said, and then looked me up and down. ‘Hey—your luggage arrived.’
‘Yep.’ I smiled.
‘You look kind of fresher.’
‘Thanks, you’re not so bad yourself.’
* * *
On the way to the garden at Sixth Street and Avenue B, we crossed Tompkins Square Park.
‘Did you find the treasure at my school?’ asked Beatrice as though she’d been building up her courage.
‘Yeah, it was pretty easy.’
‘Was it another dead person?’
‘Yep.’ I didn’t mean to be so blunt.
‘Was it something to do with me?’
‘You weren’t mentioned. It was her old English teacher.’
‘OK. When was this?’ She was calm, but she was bothered too.
‘I think it was 1997.’
‘OK.’
‘There was a girl mentioned,’ I said, ‘younger than Butterfly, called Jane. Do you know a Jane? Apparently she was plain looking and had an affair with the teacher—before the murder, of course.’
‘Of course.’ She didn’t speak for a while and eventually it made me turn and look at her. She smiled from behind her big sunglasses. ‘Maybe I should read it,’ she said.
I felt hesitant about showing it to her, but I’d brought it with me. I must have imagined letting her read it because there was no other reason to have it in my bag.
‘One of the teachers from my school went missing shortly after I left. I don’t want to be pushy or anything, but like I told you last time, your treasure hunt is slightly too close to my life for comfort. I’d like to read it, please. I’d feel better knowing that I was just a walk-on character in your story and not some key player.’
‘OK,’ I said. I took the book out of my bag and handed it to her.
‘You brought it with you?’ she said.
‘Yes.’
Beatrice put the book away, and with it any wavering of her improved humour.
* * *
We found the entrance to the garden and sure enough it was lush and shady with trees and plants, more mature than the community gardens I’d seen in Paris. The whole thing was overshadowed by the slightly sinister sixty-foot wooden tower with abandoned dolls and other toys hanging from it.
‘Is that to ward off children?’ I asked Beatrice in a lowered voice.
‘Excuse me?’ Beatrice ignored me and was addressing a woman squatted down, turning the earth between the flowers on one of the tiny plots. ‘We’re looking for Iris. Do you know if she’s here?’
I was shocked. This was my treasure hunt. I didn’t want Beatrice to take over.
‘Iris Gunther?’ asked the woman. ‘Yes, she’s just over there.’ We both looked to see whether the old lady she was pointing at could be our Iris. ‘Iris,’ called out the woman. ‘There’re some people here for you.’
Iris was tall and beautiful with white hair in a bun and dressed entirely in white. She had a high-necked blouse (presumably covering a hole where her larynx had once been) and a shawl across her shoulders attached at the front by a brooch in the form of a butterfly.
I put out my hand to stop Beatrice from speaking, but she was just staring in amazement.
‘My name is Benjamin Constable’—I held out my hand—‘and this is my friend Beatrice.’ Iris placed a pair of secateurs in the pocket of her skirt and then took off her gardening gloves with care. She smiled and shook my hand and then Beatrice’s. ‘I am a friend of Tomomi Ishikawa’s. She said that you had something for me.’
She smiled and nodded, then from her other pocket drew a notepad and held up a page with the words ‘I’m afraid I am unable to speak; I have no voice’ scribbled with the effortless perfection of another age.
‘I know.’ I smiled.
‘Butterfly told me.’
She looked blank and I said, ‘Tomomi Ishikawa.’ She smiled and nodded.
She motioned with her eyes and her hand that we should follow her. It was slightly childish, as though reducing her language to gestures had rendered her innocent. She led us to a small rectangle of carpet laid out to protect her knees while working on a plot overflowing with flowers in pots and growing from the tended earth, and a buddleia with cones of violet blossom. Next to the carpet was an old leather bag with tools around it: a pair of kitchen scissors, a hand fork and a trowel. From the bag she pulled an envelope and handed it to me.
‘Thank you.’ I beamed.
There was no wad of paper, no notebook, but something three-dimensional and well wrapped. We were all silent for a few fat seconds. I looked at Beatrice, kind of surprised she hadn’t spoken. She was watching the woman intently but stopped briefly to catch my eye. We all shook hands again and I had to almost drag Beatrice away. I turned again and waved as we walked through the gate.
‘Oh my God, I love her,’ said Beatrice.
I tore the end off the envelope and we peered in. I offered it to Beatrice for her to dip in her hand, but she pulled away in theatrical fear, so I did it myself. There was a bundle of bubble wrap held together with an elastic band. Inside were two metal spoons, three one-dollar bills and a small square of yellow paper like a Post-it note with no sticky.
The note said:
Here is a complete guide to eating exceptional yogurt (if you took a girl, you would impress her): Go to deli on Elizabeth Street between Bleecker and Houston, buy blueberry yogurt, go to Albert’s Garden on East Second Street, eat yogurts with spoons provided, sit on bench and bask in the simplicity of this little-known treasure.
B. X O X O X
I passed the yellow paper to Beatrice, she looked at it, then turned it over to check there was nothing on the other side.
‘What makes her think you’d be with a girl?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Do you know a lot of girls?’
‘Some,’ I said.
‘Let’s not go,’ said Beatrice.
Three Lives of Tomomi Ishikawa Page 16
