‘Why?’ I asked.
‘We said we were going to go to Central Park. I know a place where we can get amazing yoghurt in Midtown.’
‘But the yoghurt might not be the treasure. Somebody at the deli might give me something.’
‘Poison probably. Let’s not go, Ben. Come on. You’re a big boy. You don’t have to do everything your dead Butterfly tells you.’
I didn’t say anything.
‘You said you wanted a break from her. Even she said you should have a break. I don’t actually want anything more to do with your treasure hunt. Come on. Let’s do something else.’
I smiled.
We took the F train from Second Avenue station, where I had arrived in Manhattan four days earlier. At Forty-Second Street Beatrice grabbed my arm.
‘Quick, let’s get off,’ she said, so we did. ‘It’s a beautiful day and there are hundreds of things to see. We should walk. I’ll be your tour guide today.’
And so we strolled up Fifth Avenue talking, and every now and then she would point things out. ‘Look, here’s a French bookshop’; ‘This is Rockefeller Center’; ‘Just down there is the Seagram Building—it’s got a restaurant that commissioned the big paintings by Mark Rothko that are in your Tate Museum in London.’
When we got to the park we walked round the edge of the zoo and looked over the fence. Then we climbed up a rocky mound to a pagoda, where we sat and smoked a cigarette. The skyline to the south was like a drawing of a towering city through trees; to the north the park disappeared into the haze of eternity.
‘Are you going to write a book about Butterfly?’ Beatrice asked.
‘No, because then it would have to have murders and suicides and miserable stuff. I don’t want to write about that sort of thing. It is a bit like a novel, though. Maybe one day I’ll write it.’ I pulled out my notebook and flicked through the pages in front of Beatrice. ‘I’ve already started making notes.’
She leaned over and looked. ‘Wow, you have crazy handwriting.’
‘Thanks.’
‘If you’re going to write about Butterfly, though, you should finish your treasure hunt.’
‘I know.’ I nodded.
‘The thing is, if you really think that she’s killed people, maybe you should go to the police.’
‘I know that too.’
‘And there’s something else that we haven’t really said, but you must think, even if you’re not totally sure, and I think it too.’
This made my heart beat fast and I felt uncomfortable, but I didn’t flinch. ‘What?’
‘You think Butterfly’s not dead.’
‘Talking to you always makes things just a little bit more complicated.’
‘But it’s true, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘It must have crossed your mind.’
‘I can’t answer that question. I can’t think about it.’
‘Why? You’re getting regular emails from her. She knows where you are and what you’re doing. She even knows who you’re with. This isn’t normal behaviour for a dead person.’
‘Being dead isn’t something you just make up to entertain your friends. If I start questioning everything, I’ll go insane. She’s dead. She has to be. Otherwise it means there is some crazy conspiracy and suddenly I feel like I’ve got clinical paranoia. I’m scared of going mad. There’s stuff here that I don’t understand, but that’s OK. I don’t have to understand everything.’
‘What’s your dating situation?’
I looked at her, unsure whether this was a subject change or a twist in the conversation we were in the middle of. ‘I’m only interested in women who are unavailable or uninterested,’ I said flippantly.
‘Look, I hope you won’t get mad at me for asking this . . . ’
‘Go on.’
‘Do you think you might just be a little bit in love with Butterfly?’
I sighed. ‘It’s a fair question. But no.’
‘You sound sure of yourself.’
‘I know the answer because I’ve thought about it already. It’s clear in my head. Besides, she’s dead and she was a serial killer.’
‘I know your treasure hunt is kind of sad for you, and even distressing, but there’s also something very romantic about it. It’s a cute story. She’s spent so much time thinking of you and preparing an adventure for you. It’s a massive compliment, and what’s more, you want to write a book about her. That’s a massive compliment too.’
‘I do love her, just not in the kissing way.’
‘What, you’ve never felt attracted to her physically?’
‘It’s not that she’s unattractive, it was just never about that with me and Butterfly. It happens. People sometimes do think others are wonderful without wanting to jump into bed with them.’
‘Yeah.’ Beatrice wasn’t totally convinced.
‘What about you?’ I asked.
‘What about me what?’
‘What’s your dating situation?’
‘I’m unavailable.’
‘That makes sense,’ I said.
‘Hey, if it was a movie, who’d play you?’
‘Will Smith,’ I said off the top of my head, as though it were a decision I had made a long time ago.
‘He’s nothing like you.’
‘It’ll be a challenging role for him. I think he could do with a challenging role.’
‘I think Gary Oldman would be better. Or John Malkovich.’
‘No, you’re too literal. And they’re too old. Anyway, it’s not that kind of film.’
Beatrice laughed.
‘Films are never like books,’ I said. ‘You may as well have a surprising cast.’
‘Shall I show you where to get amazing yoghurt?’ asked Beatrice. ‘Or would you prefer ice cream?’
‘Ice cream,’ I said, to prove I was independently minded.
‘Come on then,’ she said. ‘Tally-ho!’
19
Guy Bastide
To: Benjamin Constable
From: [email protected]
Subject: A Clue
Sent: 08-25-07 09:13 (GMT -6)
Darling Ben Constable,
So, you are adjusting to the rhythms, shapes and smells of New York, and you have wandered some of the streets of my history. Now I would like to take you to another spot that you have passed a couple of times already, perhaps without noticing (although it is a joy to behold and of significance in both my life and that of the city).
There is a clock that sits atop the tower of a redbrick and white-granite castle that could have been whisked directly from southern Germany to the heart of Greenwich Village, where it marks the hour with an inharmonic chime. It was in fact the neo-Gothic folly of architects Frederick Clark Withers and Calvert Vaux. The whole delightful edifice was constructed in 1883 on the site of the former Jefferson Market, and for years was reputed to be one of the most beautiful buildings in the United States. Its official title was the Third Judicial District Courthouse, but by the second half of the twentieth century it had fallen into disuse, symbolized by the hands of the clock, which for many years had been marking the hour ceaselessly as twenty minutes past three.
Quite apart from its constant presence throughout my childhood as the landmark overshadowing the garden where I first dirtied my hands for the benefit of the community, and a place for books and reading, it had particular relevance in the life of the woman who raised me.
Late in 1959, Yutaka Sasaki from Sumitomo Bank, his wife, Kimiko, and their eighteen-year-old daughter, Keiko, attended a cocktail party at 51 Fifth Avenue. Keiko clearly remembered a woman saying to the portly cigar-smoking mayor, Robert F. Wagner Jr., “What we would really like for Christmas is to get the clock of Jefferson Courthouse working again,” thus starting the campaign that led to the building’s restoration and transformation into its current incarnation as Jefferson Market Library. The clock eventually chimed for the first time in decades on March 15, 1964, just as Keiko Sasaki was leaving the doctors wi
th news of a shadow on her abdomen, thus marking the beginning of the end of her life. Damn that clock, she thought. If it could just have waited at twenty past three, then I would be able to live happily ever after.
It is a curiously invigorating pleasure to be writing to you, Ben Constable, and how I would love to dally further. (Did you know that the shortest correspondence ever was between Victor Hugo and his editor? On the publication of Les Misérables, Hugo sent a telegram with just a question mark. His editor replied with a single exclamation mark.) But once again it is the point that draws me from my endless parentheses and crashing back to reality. And because it is a clue to a foul treasure (read “fowl” if you will), it is to be found in the section on domestic birds of a library close to my heart (can you guess which?) in an unlikely book by a man (or possibly a woman) named Wright.
But for now, my dear, once again I am sad to be leaving you for a moment, while you find the next installment of my gruesome memoir. Until we meet again . . .
B (is for X X X M X X X U X X X R X X X D X X X E X X X R X X X ! ! !)
Jefferson Market Library was every bit as Tomomi Ishikawa had described. And I had indeed passed it already without taking note, proof if any were needed of my lack of observation for even the most notable sights.
I had never seen Cat in a library before and it seemed to suit him well. However, his knowledge of the Dewey decimal system was poor, and when I asked him to lead the way to the section on domestic fowl, he looked at me blankly and sat down and started to lick his front right paw. I felt rather embarrassed to ask a librarian, but it seemed the only option.
Wright’s Book of Poultry (636.522) was a hefty tome about chickens, which had not, in my judgement, been removed from the shelf for many years. There was nothing inserted next to either of the covers (front or back), but two-thirds of the way through there was half an inch of pages glued together. A few of the sheets at the beginning and end of this bunch were whole, but it was clear that ones at the interior had had their centres cut out, leaving a secret (or not so secret, but at least not visible) compartment. Cat watched with interest. I pulled out Butterfly’s on/offable pen (more out of habit than need) and punctured a small hole at the top right-hand corner of the cavity, dragging down to leave a fairly neat cut and inflicting the least damage possible on the already abused work of Wright. Inside was a smallish brown envelope and within was the tiniest of all the notebooks thus far associated with this trail. I returned Wright’s Book of Poultry to its Dewey-decimally designated position and Cat and I got out and walked round the corner to the French café at the intersection of Eleventh and Fourth Streets, where I had met Beatrice. I drank a bottled beer as I read.
Dr. Guy Bastide MD (1944–2000)
This is the story of a murder.
To this day I believe that I had little choice but to kill Dr. Bastide. And that lack of choice might in some way have justified my actions, but it couldn’t push aside my desire to punish him. Worse than that, I know I would never have considered killing anyone, out of need or vengeance, had I not already had several experiences of that most exquisite and violent of delicacies. The pitiful truth is that I was looking for an excuse to do it again. And so I drifted into premeditation and, ultimately, execution. There is no mitigation, only motivation, and the motive is not good enough.
My father had followed his best friend from childhood across the globe from Manchuria, where they were born during the Japanese occupation, back to postwar Japan, then to California and eventually to New York. That his best friend should be a woman was unusual, that he should find excuses to live wherever in the world she went was more so, but for those who know him, it was further proof of his ingenuity and perhaps neediness. My father had no siblings and found all the community he could wish for in this fraternal relationship. That was the nature of their bond.
Komori decided not to mention to my father that she was dying. Besides, she wasn’t dying quickly. It could take five, ten or even fifteen years. Nobody knew. It wasn’t until much later, when a sudden gastric disorder scared her, that she confessed everything. Daddy was devastated. He sought the best medical advice and sent her for the most high-tech scans and every test imaginable. She saw consultants until she could no more, then alternative practitioners were sent to her, but the only person whose advice she felt comfortable following was a young, calm and fairly conventional Dr. Guy Bastide.
Bastide’s ancestors were French but had come to New York via Quebec two generations previously. Although he spoke no French, he was delighted to correct anybody on the pronunciation of his name (Ghee Basteed) and was known for his good humor and gentle manner.
He worked with the terminally sick. He had no miracle cures and no specialist techniques. As a doctor he was pragmatic, taking one problem at a time and dealing with it in the most appropriate manner statistics-based science would allow. There was something solidly reassuring about his method. And in this way he kept Komori alive.
Several months after her death he called me. He spent a long time finding out how I was before coming to the delicate point of some unsettled fees that were not covered by the insurance. I was embarrassed and apologetic and said I would look into how to settle the matter.
Her estate didn’t contain a stock of cash. Komori had left little more than her apartment. I tried to contact my father, but he was absent (as ever) and wouldn’t return my calls. I hoped that I might be able to get a bank loan to cover the debt. But first things first, I needed to know how much was owed and whether I might be able to negotiate terms of payment.
After a few days spent procrastinating, I left a message for Bastide and he called me back later that afternoon. He suggested coming to the apartment to explain everything and I agreed.
His manner was as careful as always.
“As you have experienced, Butterfly, accompanying people through a terminal pathology is incredibly consuming. This is something I had discussed in depth with Keiko. It is not just the practical responsibilities, but the profound emotional strain.”
“Of course,” I said, although I had no idea what he was talking about.
“The clinic and staff are funded in a number of different ways. The lion’s share of our resources come directly from insurance companies. There are certain state subsidies as well, which though small are a great help. There are also a couple of charities and foundations who offer aid, but sadly we are also obliged to ask that patients make a donation, solely in line with their means. In order to ensure the continuity of service, we stipulate this contribution as a condition of treatment.”
“And you discussed this with Keiko?”
“Yes, on several occasions.”
I flushed. “I’m afraid Keiko didn’t have any means. She has been supported by my father for all the years of her sickness. I . . . I . . .” I didn’t want him to interrupt. “I could . . . if you would tell me how much of a donation you would like, I’d find the money and pay you, Doctor.”
“Thank you, Butterfly. That is truly a great kindness, especially at this difficult time. I’m ashamed to have to even come to you with this matter. I wish that I had the means to simply offer all the support I could, as a friend. And I do consider that over the years Keiko and I became good friends.”
“Yes, Doctor. It was my impression too that you were a friend of the family.” I remembered the times when he had been there during the evening or eaten with us. “I have a very real problem of limited income, though, Doctor. I am still trying to contact my father to ask if he would help me. I was wondering if there was any way that I could pay you in installments—perhaps over a year, or even two. How much do you think would be an appropriate amount?”
“Oh, I don’t think there’s any need to get your father involved.”
I understood this to mean that we were not talking the kind of money that would be inaccessible to a young graduate. “I’m very surprised, though, because Komori never spoke of this and she was so organized in every other respec
t of her death,” I said.
“She was an incredible lady. Yes, she did in fact explain her financial situation to me with just that same attention to detail we have both admired. I understand that you were to inherit this apartment.”
“The apartment?” I had to check to make sure I wasn’t about to overreact but I had a sudden suspicion that this kind-talking friend of the family was setting me up to extort money. I hardened. “What do you want, Doctor?”
“The donation that I talked about with Keiko.”
“I think I would like to see an invoice or a contract or something.”
“Butterfly, please, I think you misunderstand the situation.”
“Sadly, Doctor, I think I have understood that you are trying to extract money and without legally binding documentation showing monies owed. If you thought you might be able to abuse your position to manipulate a poor bereaved girl out of her inheritance, you are gravely mistaken. I will pay nothing. I think you should leave now, Dr. Bastide.”
“Butterfly, this is not at all the case. Keiko spoke for many years about making a donation from equity she had tied up in this apartment. You dishonor her name not to even listen to her wishes.”
“What did she wish?”
“To make a donation.”
“You’re a liar. She would have told me.”
“I think this may be the problem, Butterfly. It seems she told you and me different things.”
“I’d like you to leave now, Doctor. I’m not going to sell the only thing I have left of my nanny to give you part of the money.”
“Oh, I don’t want part of it, Butterfly. I want it all.”
“Get out before I call the police.”
“Calm down. We can sort this out without any stress. Breathe deeply. Calm. That’s good. You know you can’t call the police. Don’t forget, I signed the death certificate.”
“But you said . . .”
“You murdered her, Butterfly.”
“That’s not fair. You said it had to be somebody else who did it. Nobody from the clinic.”
“That’s correct.”
“You were complicit. You told me what to give her. You told me how to do it.” I was panicking now.
Three Lives of Tomomi Ishikawa Page 17
