whatever promise she wanted him to make now. Break his word. Break her heart. Better to do it now. Get it over with.
In her eyes, he sees a tiny projection of what she thinks he is, this good heroic man. He cannot help himself. Wants to feel his hands squeezing the life out of his own false image.
In his head, there is the thing; that glinting something, like the after-glare from a flash bulb. The burn of horror. The ghost-flare of images. What he knows is that he cannot go back to any where, since there is no purpose to any thing.
How to explain?
How to explain he may not be alive a year from now?
He leaves out the last bit. He looks her straight in the eyes and then says, “I just don’t love you, Kate.”
“You’re lying,” she says.
He shakes his head.
“You’re just saying that because you’re sick. Because you’re depressed.”
He shakes his head.
It takes three days for her to believe him.
“If I go,” she says on the third, “this is it, Matthew. I’m not going to sit waiting for the phone to ring. I’ve done enough fucking waiting. Enough sitting around. Wasted enough time on you. You’re a real bastard, you know that?”
He does.
“Fine. You’re a fool. You have no idea what you’re turning down.”
But he does.
“My life’s been on hold, waiting for you. The number of times I’ve run to some fleabag dump in some godforsaken corner of the earth so we could have a couple of days together. The number of times I’ve believed your promises. Christ. What a fool I’ve been.” She picks up her purse. “Hope you heal up okay. In every way. Leave a message at my office with Sherri. Let me know where you want your stuff sent.”
She does not glance back. He does not blame her, of course. She is absolutely right. Kate, the only woman to whom he’s talked of his mother’s death; it was ruled not to be a suicide, but what else do you call starving yourself to death? Kate, who believes in lost causes like saving the rainforests or stopping the AIDS epidemic in Africa, has no choice. At last she stops believing in him.
The next two days he spends alternately staring at the wall and at the bland expanse of white sheet that covers him. Both act as excellent projectors. All his nightmares find daytime viewing space. He simply cannot get enough sleeping pills.
The nurse comes in with the phone again. “A very insistent man,” she says.
“Tell my father I died.”
“Funny. It isn’t your father.” She puts the phone down and leaves.
He considers not answering it, and then decides it might be a diversion from the horror film playing in his head.
“Yes?”
“Matthew Bowles?” A man’s voice. He does not recognize it. The line crackles. Long distance.
“Yes.”
“Oh. My name is Brent Cappilini. I’m a literary agent.” New York accent. He says ‘Brent’ as though there were no ‘t’ at the end.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Cappilini?”
“Call me Brent. And I’ll tell you what you can do. You can write a book.”
“What about?”
“About yourself. About what got you shot.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Are you kidding? You are a hot ticket, pal. Am I the first agent to contact you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, good for me, but I won’t be the last. Believe me.” He has a deep laugh. Deeper than his speaking voice. Matthew pictures a little man with a big cigar. “I can get you six figures, on spec.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“I’ll call you back tomorrow.”
Matthew hangs up the phone and stares at the wall some more. His funds are less than limited. A few thousand. He is an independent, with no newspaper empire behind him. No long-term disability. His medical insurance will eat this up. He will never get any more. Bad risk. Very shortly, he will be destitute. If I’m still alive. Like mother, like son?
Writing a book might at least buy time in which he can sort through things and come to a decision. The knowledge he now carries irrevocably, heavy as a sack of skulls, irrevocably changes the world. There is so little hope, and no purpose to anything. The world is exposed. It is horror, and all his belief in the power of observation proven to be folly. And if his mission fails, if it turns out there is nothing to understand, no answer, then he knows very well how to permanently stop the pain. Until then, he might as well write a book, maybe even explain a thing or two.
The agent calls again the next day. “I suppose we should talk,” Matthew says.
“Good man,” says Brent Cappilini.
Chapter Three
Matthew wakes with a start. It is how he always wakes now, as though someone has yelled in his ear. He opens his eyes, looks out the bedroom window onto the courtyard. Dark out there, but that means nothing, it might be morning, might be afternoon, even. The bed is as hard as an army cot. That’s the problem with furnished apartments. That and the crucifix over the bed. Must remove that. He rolls onto his side, sits up slowly and hangs his head in his hands. Coffee. Must have coffee. He looks at his feet and notices for the first time the broken blood vessels around his ankles. When had they appeared? He feels sick to his stomach. Bathroom. The morning gag. Brush teeth. Do not look too closely in the mirror. Wash. Shaving optional. Forget shaving.
Shuffle into the kitchen. Root around in the sink for a semi clean cup. Plug in the coffee maker. While coffee brews, go into the living room. The two large windows here tell him it is morning. Turn on the pint-sized television. Blah-blah-blah. Turn it off again. Go back to the kitchen. Open the refrigerator. Steak. An old bag of salad. A wrinkling tomato. Half a dozen cans of beer. Some goat cheese. A bowl of fat green olives marinated in garlic. Whoa. Stomach not ready for that one. Ah, milk. Coffee in cup, milk in coffee. Cup in hand. Sip. Ah. Coffee brain fizzle. There’s a dance in the old boy yet.
He carries the cup into the living room, to the cubbyhole on the other side of the main room. He congratulates himself again on finding a top floor apartment at 11 bis, rue de Moscou. He sees the apartment as monastic, with aspirations. He is trying to step out of the husk of his past here and wants as little as possible tugging at his sleeve. If he is going to emerge, he must do so unencumbered. If he is not going to emerge, he wants to leave nothing behind. The price is right and more importantly it is a top floor, so his claustrophobia is not a garrotte across his throat. There is no bang-bang-bang of overhead footsteps, and the light is good. The syrupy light of late August flows in through the open window, across the cluttered, battered old table that serves as Matthew’s desk. It soothes him, as
