The Executor (26 page)

“You should be, too.”

“I’ll deal.”

“You deserve more than that. You deserve to be happy in every respect. You—”

She started crying again.

I apologized.

“Never mind,” she said. She wiped her face. Then, with only the briefest hesitation, she reached out for me.

 

 

IF I CONSIDERED the library a sacred space—and I did—then I ought to’ve felt ashamed defiling it. I didn’t. I felt terrific. I felt at peace, enjoying the softness of the carpet against my bare back. Yasmina lay bunched against me. Her makeup was smudged, her hair a black tangle, and the feeling of her there brought to mind quiet Sunday mornings past, when I woke early, her skin moist and darkly radiant among the pure white sheets, one neat lacquered hand darting out again and again to slap the snooze button, a quiet comedy that could last the better part of an hour. She spent a lot of time fretting over body hair, bleaching and epilating, the base of her neck, her forearms, the small of her back. In all honesty I preferred her the way she was. She always felt to me like a feral thing I had managed to tame.

Now she sat up and began gathering her clothes.

“Mina.”

She faced away to put on her bra.

“Mina. Talk to me.”

“What do you want me to say? I’m getting married.”

“Are you?”

She ignored me.

“Mina—”

“Please stop. I feel bad enough as it is.”

“Wait.” I sat up. “Let’s have a conversation.”

“I’m engaged.”

“To someone you don’t love.”

“It’s still wrong.”

“What can I do to convince you?” I asked.

“You can’t,” she said. “Not even you.”

 

 

SHE WOULDN’T LET me walk her home, so I called a cab and we went out on the front porch to wait. It was cold out, the moon in hiding. Behind me I sensed the heft of the house, my house. Watching Yasmina take pleasure in it had given me untold joy.

“It’s going to snow soon,” she said.

Her car turned the corner.

“It’s up to you,” I said. “Remember that.”

“Okay, Confucius.”

I stayed on the front porch, willing her to turn around. But it was two in the morning, and she had to get up for work. She had decisions to make. Not even I could convince her. I’d made my case as best I could, and now all I could do was wait. I stood up to go inside.

Fifty feet away, across the street, the darkness moved. A bright orange spot pierced the oily black—cigarette—and then disappeared.

C
ambridge emptied out for the holidays. Drew left for a poker tournament in Reno. Yasmina flew to Los Angeles, where her family was throwing her and Pedram a second engagement party. I stayed indoors, ordering food from the market, surfing the Internet, typing and deleting, inching forward, sliding back. Realizing that I would have to take more drastic measures, I called Detective Zitelli.

“Not really,” he said, when I asked if he could tell me what was happening.

“The autopsy must be finished,” I said. “They released the body.”

“It’s finished.”

The verdict was cardiac arrest, caused by an overdose of a combination of medications, self-inflicted.

“What about Eric?”

“What about him.”

“You didn’t talk to him?”

“Listen up,” he said. “I’m driving the bus here. Not you. Now, you can be an asset or you can be a liability. Your call.”

I apologized.

“You’re going to have to take my word on this, all right? But based on the information we have so far, it’s pretty clear that Ms. Spielmann took her own life.”

I said nothing, thinking of her last, lonely hours on earth.

“I know it’s not an easy thing to accept,” he said. “For what it’s worth, I can tell you cared about her a lot.”

His tone, just shy of sincere, raised my antennae. I wanted to get off the phone, but I hadn’t yet asked my second question. In trying to make the segue sound natural, I ended up stuttering like a ham actor. “Uh—thank you. I app—thanks, but—detective? One more—sorry. One thing, about her thesis, the thesis. Do you think I might be able to get that back anytime soon?” I paused. “I need it, you see, for research purposes.”

A brief silence.

“I’m working as fast as I can,” he said.

“Of course. Only that it’s rather important, and if the case is closed—”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Well, but you said it’s clear what happened.”

“I said it’s pretty clear.”

I had to hand it to the man: he knew how to split a hair. “A ball-park estimate, then,” I said.

A longer silence.

“It mostly depends on when I get it back from the translator,” he said.

“... you’re having it translated.”

“My German’s a little rusty.”

I pressed my fist against my forehead. “I see. Well ... well, I could help you out with that, if you wanted.”

“That’s nice of you to offer, but we got it covered.”

“Anything I can do to help.”

“Duly noted,” he said. “Happy holidays.”

 

 

THE NEXT DAY I went back to the menswear store. The salesman recognized me, shook my hand, made conversation. With his guidance, I selected a set of gold cufflinks as a Christmas present to myself, one that entailed the purchase of a new shirt with French cuffs. I can’t say that either of them brought me to any substantial philosophical insight, but they did look quite dashing, and standing in front of the three-way mirror, I felt a sense of accomplishment, as though I had sewn the shirt myself. Consumption can serve as a proxy for production, can it not? I entered the store with nothing and emerged laden with goods: the shirt and the cufflinks, yes, and some matching slacks, and a tan shoulder bag made of a magnificently buttery lambskin. And a second shirt as well. To complement his two pairs of shoes, the well-dressed man requires, at minimum, one shirt in white and one in blue. Plus a third in pink. I always did like pink.

So agreeable was I that I stopped at a women’s boutique to buy Yasmina a gift. Of everything on offer, a ruby pendant set in yellow gold was the clear favorite. I balked momentarily when I saw the price tag—twenty-six hundred dollars—but I reminded myself that I had to strike while the iron was hot, and worst-case scenario I could always raid the vanity again for more things to sell. I had the pendant gift-wrapped, signed the note
with love from Confucius,
and shipped it to her parents’ house.

On December 24, after making the requisite call home, I transferred my dinner from tins to plates, poured myself a large glass of champagne, and carried everything on a tray to the dining-room table, which I had set for myself for the first time, a gesture I thought appropriately festive.

On December 27, Yasmina called.

“What do you think you’re doing.”

“Beg pardon?”

“You can’t do this.”

“Happy Hanukkah,” I said.

“You can’t, Joseph.”

“If you don’t like it, I can take it back.”

“Whether I like it or not is beside the point.”

“Do you?”

“Seriously. What am I supposed to do with this?”

“Wear it.”

“Oh, please.”

“Consider it a gesture of friendship.”

“Oh
please.”

“You think it’s an unfriendly gesture?”

“I think I’m
engaged.”

“That’s a start,” I said. “Before you were certain.”

“Uch, will you please, please stop.”

“I’m trying to woo you with brazen displays of largesse,” I said. “I don’t know, I feel like it’s working.”

“It’s not.”

“So you don’t like it.”

“Of course I like it. It’s gorgeous.”

“Then it’s working.”

“Joseph ...” Her voice dropped. “Shit. I have to go.”

“Wait.”

“I’ll call you later.”

“Mina—”

She hung up. I smiled, then opened the refrigerator door and reached for the remaining champagne.

 

 

THAT NIGHT I dreamt of Alma.

We were walking in a giant emporium, like Wal-Mart but far larger, with shelving so high it seemed to bow inward, stocked to the edges with colorful items of all types, sporting equipment, cleaning products, children’s toys, all outsize and nuclear bright. The two of us were pushing a rattling shopping cart twice my height, grabbing item after item down off the shelf. The cart would not fill up; we kept reaching for more; and the rattling grew louder and lower, a monstrous gastrointestinal sound like a demolition derby. I asked her to wait; I needed a break; I couldn’t bear it any longer. She kept on going without me, though, and I screamed at her to stop, one second of quiet and rest; on she pushed, headed for the end of the aisle, and I knew that if I didn’t catch her soon, I never would. I felt around for something to throw, not at her but near enough to get her attention and make her realize that I’d fallen behind. I came up with a china saucer but hesitated, throwing a saucer is wrong, you can’t go around destroying perfectly good saucers. Up ahead she had begun to make the turn; it was now or never; and I coiled up and let loose. Away the saucer sailed, careening off the shelves, touching off chaos wherever it struck, boxes and products flying everywhere, plastic and cardboard in traffic-cone orange and coolant green, everything raining down, burying me, blacking out my last sight of her.

Five thirty-three A.M. and breaking glass.

Eyes open. Chest prickling with perspiration. Outside, charcoal morning: the backyard, the quince tree peeled bare, the fence open, and there, something else, light knifing across the grass, its origin a downstairs room, its origin the library. Someone was in the house, I knew who it was, he was here.

I reached for my bathrobe, took a poker from the fireplace, and crept downstairs. An icy draft led me to the back room, my old room, where I saw the leaded panel with the hunting scene smashed clean out. I reached down, touched one of the larger shards. The hunter’s cap. Or was it the deerskin? I could not tell. Now they were indistinguishable, beauty become trash. I turned on my haunches, trembling with rage.

I expected him to jump up as I came into the library, but he sat there placidly, in the middle of the carpet, surrounded by crumpled paper, bent covers, loose ripped spines, looking like some deranged scholar. He had pulled down, and destroyed, the better part of a dozen shelves.

“Get up,” I said.

His hand moved beneath a splayed facedown book and came up holding Alma’s pistol.

“No,” he said. “You sit down.”

It is interesting how many calculations your brain performs in a moment like that. The distance to him; the distance to the door; the weight of the poker in my hand; the probability that the gun was loaded, multiplied by the probability that it still worked. The numbers clanked and whirred, but no solution came. I sat in one of the easy chairs.

“Put it on the floor.”

I put the poker down.

“Give it here.”

I did.

“Good,” he said. “Now we can have a conversation.”

I said nothing.

“I can’t find the checkbook.”

“I threw it out,” I said.

He frowned. “Why’d you do that.”

“It’s worthless,” I said. “They’re in her name.”

He stared at me. “Why’d I come here, then.”

I didn’t think that merited an answer.

“Well,” he said, “that sucks.”

I said nothing.

“It’s really cold out there, you know.”

I said nothing.

“Really cold,” he said again. “She always liked it to be like a freezer in here. I used to walk around in fifteen layers. Can you imagine? She didn’t care, though.”

I said nothing.

“I know it was for her thing and blah blah. But a little human decency, you know? That’s the problem with people like you.”

I said nothing.

He said, “Take off your clothes.”

I did not move.

He pointed the gun at my chest.

I stood up and removed my robe.

Silence.

He was waiting for me.

I took off my pajama bottoms.

“You’re not done yet.”

I stood naked before him.

“Are you cold?”

I said nothing.

He looked at my genitals. “You look cold.” He laughed. “Sit down.”

“You can have the jewelry,” I said.

“And you can go fuck yourself,” he said.

Silence.

I sat. Against my skin the upholstery felt like sand.

“So, come on. Let’s talk about something.”

Silence.

I said, “What do you want to talk about?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Let’s see.” He thought. “Okay. How bout this. Did you ever think about her when you jacked off?”

I said nothing.

“Did you?”

“You’re disgusting.”

He laughed.

“You were an embarrassment to her,” I said.

“Maybe,” he said.

“You’re a failure.”

“Maybe. But I don’t know, man. I mean, look at us. Which one of us would you say is the failure?”

I said nothing.

“Say, ‘You’re right, Eric.’”

I said nothing.

“Say it.”

“You’re right.”

“‘You’re right, Eric.’”

“You’re right, Eric.”

“‘You’re right, sir.’”

“You’re right, sir.”

“Say, ‘I’m a piece of shit.’”

“... I’m a piece of shit.”

“Louder, please.”

“I’m a piece of shit.”

“Say, ‘I’m a douchebag.’”

“I’m a douchebag.”

“‘Who thinks about dead old women when he jacks off.’”

I said nothing.

“Aw, you were doing so well.”