1
It was all over gravel, but better than the last place. There was all over swampland and crocodiles.
2
At the designated location were many men of pleasing visage.
But if one begins with such a high class of word, a word in need of italic, of accent, one can hardly go on with the report. The stakes upped, as it were.
There were many men of pleasing countenance.
Aspect?
Many, anyway. So many so as to be unusual; on occasion there might be one; two, rarely; but here so many as to be unusual. I had to wonder. I was confused, besotted in no less than nine different directions. Confusion made me suspect, suspicion made me paranoid, paranoia made me appear insane, insanity made me desirable, and from no less than nine different directions did the eyes fall upon me. Centered as I was at a central table, and so desirable with insanity.
I am not desirable.
It’s no single thing.
I have red hair and no freckles. The hair is straight as the edge of a page. There are other things, but I offer these three to illustrate the nature of the difficulty: I lack the appropriate combinations. Red hair is acceptable if freckles are involved. If there are no freckles but only a broad expanse of milky skin, one should be curly. Et cetera. I excused myself with perhaps an excess of formality. I used excuses that clashed and contradicted one another. I, I dare say, protested too much. I took my leave.
Binelli found me. He finds us all, every time. I should likely not have stopped so soon for a shrimp cocktail, but the stand was right there, all the little shrimps so pink and pearly.
—Finley, he said.
—Binelli, I said back.
We maintained a brief but meaningful standoff. I can win any such standoff. I can win any contest involving silence or stillness or maintaining a straight face. I once, presumably out of some heart-felt anger, maintained a silence for so long I forgot who I was. With speech went character, with character memory, with memory me. All I can recall from that time was the feeling of being something very very small, encased within some sort of roomy cocoon. I was erased entirely; that was before Binelli gave me the new papers. We stood off and Binelli lost.
—Finley, he said.—I need you to go back in there and talk to this guy.
—Which guy, I wondered. There were so many, all of such pleasing aspect.
—He’s in the back right corner. He runs Up All Puppets!
—What.
—Up All Puppets!
—Did. You. Say. I continued as if he hadn’t interrupted and then there was again silence, it being unclear whose turn it was to speak. The question having already been answered, as it were.
Again, a standoff. Again, my victory.
—Up All Puppets!
I tried to remain calm.—I will not.
—But you will.
—Puppets, I informed Binelli,—are my Most Hated Thing.
—Not so. He considered for a moment.—Not so at all. What about the Russians?
He had me there. I had no love for the Russians. Less than no love. A negative value of love. Despite my Russian papers and my tidy grasp of the Russian tongue.
—That being as it may, I told him,—Puppets are right up there.
—No, he said.—No, I think you hate that girl dressed in blue a little bit more than Puppets.
He was slick. I did, I did with every fiber of my being hate that girl dressed in blue more than Puppets, although no more certainly than the Russians. I hated also to concede but concede I did.
She was simply too tall, too gregarious. Too easy with her affections.
—Well then, he continued,—Puppets are—and only if there’s nothing I’m forgetting—third on your list of Most Hated Things. Let me, if I may, offer a parallel.
I let him.
—You, he told me,—are one of my Most Hated Things. I find you utterly and irrevocably despicable.
I nodded. This was no secret.
—However, he said,—you know as well that Murphy is, to my thinking, a notch or two ahead of you in despicability. Irredeemable despicability. And then, you are also aware, I find The Lamb perhaps more despicable than that. Making you, you Finley, third on my list of Most Hated Things. Which is why you, and neither Murphy nor The Lamb, are being Assigned the Third-Worst Assignment.
—Up All Puppets!? I said, quite unnecessarily.
—Indeed. Now, should you refuse, as I’m sure you will not, you will rise in despicability and therefore be Assigned perhaps the Second- or even First-Worst Assignment. Having risen in the ranks, so to speak. Would you like to know what the Second- and First-Worst Assignments entail?
His smile was such that I didn’t.
3
I went back into the bar and cast my eyes about the men. I tried not to swoon. There was a man in the back right corner, alone at a table. Alone, that is, but for a decanter of what one might reasonably assume to be beer, if one were the assuming type.
—What are you drinking, I said, sliding in beside him.
He looked me up and down. I took the opportunity to glance casually about the area for Puppets. I saw none but that didn’t mean there weren’t any. Who knows how these Puppet men operate. I maintained an aura of alertness. He was of such pleasing aspect.
—Look, I’m not really—
I put a finger to my lips.—No need to explain. I’m only here to work out some details.
I sniffed at the decanter. It was indeed beer. I signaled the barman for an extra glass. Beer tends to smooth out those initial awkwardnesses.
—First, I told him, as I waited for my glass to arrive,—I have to ask that you not suddenly pull out your Puppets. I was Assigned to this job, and I am prepared to carry it out with all appropriate aplomb and enthusiasm, but I have to admit to a certain distaste, I said in a polite way of putting it mildly,—for the fundamental tools of your profession.
He’d been hitting the pitcher hard, evidently, awaiting my arrival; the confusion on his face could not be masked. Or perhaps it wasn’t confusion. Perhaps there was a confidence scheme at work and he didn’t want it widely known that he was the man behind Up All Puppets! Perhaps there were enemies or competitors close at hand. An elderly Indian gentleman a bit farther back in the corner was looking upon us with what seemed
