Shadow Traffic (13 page)

She looked at Wilhelm, who was now dancing with a tall blonde, and he thought she seemed to be coming to some sort of decision. Then she turned toward him in her characteristically dramatic way.

“I'm leaving now. You want to come with me?”

“Yes,” he said, although he felt by doing so he'd now completely betrayed both Memo and, in a way, Oblivion too.

She barely talked to him on the street—just one- or two-word answers to his questions. What would happen if this continued? Finally he asked if she wanted to go someplace and have a drink.

“A bar?” she said, almost contemptuously. “I met you in a bar. Don't you have anything at your place?”

He tried to form a mental picture of his tiny, amorphous kitchen. There was only some cooking wine; he was not a drinker.

“Maybe not what you want.”

“Doesn't matter. I've gone old school and got some pot. Remember when it was a big thing, before everyone started wanting all these memory drugs? Anyway, I've got some and it mixes well with O. We can smoke it at your place, can't we?”

“Sure,” he said, his long neglected penis suddenly stirring again.

In the cab she said, “You're kind of ambivalent about O but you definitely want me, right?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“I still have insight into people. I used to have really good insight but it tortured me. O took away a lot of that but there's still some left. Don't look so sad. It was my choice, after all.”

At the door of his building he said, “My place is small and there's not much to it.”

“Don't worry, I'm never gonna remember it.”

The remark both set him at ease and hurt his feelings. Did it mean she'd never see him again—that this was only a one-night stand? He asked her about that while she was rolling a joint on the desk in his bedroom.

“My goal is to get rid of my memories, not increase them, I thought you understood all that. So why would I remember your place? If we have fun I might remember you,” she said, with a smile that revived his temporarily lost erection.

He should have kissed her then, he realized later, or else right after they smoked, but instead he asked her about Wilhelm. He saw her face constrict as if he were aiming an intense flashlight on it.

“I don't want to talk about Wilhelm.”

“What did he do to you?”

“Hey, Mr. Andrew, you want to spend time with me, don't talk about him, OK?”

“Fair enough,” he said, deciding that this time he really would shut up before he ruined everything. Besides, it was all he could do to inhale the marijuana right without making a coughing fool out of himself. The reward, however, was an immediate, blissful high. He looked at Seven, who seemed to be feeling the same thing. He remembered thinking it was human nature to let your enthusiasm for something—be it Memo or Oblivion—drive you to extreme positions. In that sense there was really no difference between the two. Then he started kissing Seven and soon after that they took off their clothes.

He didn't see it until afterward—noticed something for a second,
like a shape in a dream, but didn't really see it till she got up to use his bathroom. Then he knew he would see it forever. It was written in black, the color of Oblivion, underneath an image of a pair of eyes—the single word “Wilhelm” just above her bottom. He felt a burning throughout his body as if he'd been set on fire. He thought, I'll give her my life savings if she'll just get it removed.

She returned from his bathroom wearing only her panties and looked at him.

“So you saw it. Did it ruin your good time?”

“I knew you two were lovers anyway.”

She began dressing herself slowly but methodically.

“People do things they regret but they deserve to forget them,” she said. “Isn't that why you joined Oblivion? Anyway, Wilhelm's not my lover. Our relationship is just the business now.”

“It's hard to believe that. I saw how angry you were when he was dancing with that blonde.”

“It's not what you think. We made a pact not to date any members, but he continues to violate it and then flaunt it in my face.”

“If your relationship is over, why do you still care?”

“My relationship with him will never be over.”

“So, you're still lovers then?”

“Stop giving me the third degree. Stop it! I won't stand for it.”

“Sorry. It's been done a lot lately to me too.”

But he couldn't stop himself. It was as if the part of him that was asking questions over and over was operating on its own, like an independent entity. As far as he knew, he was still terrified of losing her, yet the question still wouldn't stop, though her face had gone first red with rage, then white with shock. Finally
she screamed at him, “OK, OK. God damn you, he's my brother. Are you satisfied now?”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Yes, Jesus almighty Christ. You still remember him. I'm impressed.”

“How could that happen?”

For a moment he saw a sad smile on her face, before she looked away from him. She was talking now—a flood of words like a waterfall—but he couldn't make sense of it other than she blamed her father, who had done unspeakable things to both of them.

“Wilhelm got us away from him. He saved my life, so how can I hate him?” she said, crying a little. “Do you expect him to be a normal man after what my father did to us? We both want to forget, that's all. What else can we do?”

“I don't know,” he said, trying in vain to make eye contact with her, and then looking away himself.

“Of course you don't know. You screw me but you don't know. You only know I'm a permanently ruined woman, right? That's why I plan to forget you.”

He looked up and saw that incredibly she was already dressed.

“I'll tell you what else I know,” she said, looking sharply at him. “You're a weak and terribly confused man, yourself. You're playing some kind of dangerous game. I know that much and Wilhelm knows it too. Maybe it's with Memo, maybe not, but it's a dangerous game that could have a very bad ending.”

“Did you tell Wilhelm that?”

“I don't have to. We think the same thoughts. Things are going to be closing in on you very fast, Andrew. My advice to you is to get out of here right away. Get out of all your lonely-hearts
clubs and leave New York right now. You're from someplace else, right?”

“Yes, a town in Mass …”

“Don't tell me, it will be one more thing I'll have to forget. Just go back to it.”

“But can't you give me a chance to talk with you first?”

“Just forget it,” she said, letting herself out his door and slamming it behind her. All she had left (he noticed a moment later), whether by accident or design, was two more Oblivion pills. He stared at them as if they were a pair of eyes to which he was drawn, wondering how much they could help kill his pain. But there was no time for such self-indulgence because his fear was even stronger. She'd warned him, but what exactly had she said? He took a Memo to remember it more clearly. Almost instantly her words came back, as did his meeting with Wallace at the party. Which one, if either, could he trust?

He began frantically packing his suitcase, thinking that both Memo and Oblivion knew his phone number, e-mail password, credit card number, and address. Had he left any incriminating e-mails? He didn't think so, but there was no time to check. Had they tapped out his credit card by now? He'd better take as much cash as he could, especially since he couldn't fly directly to his parents' home—he'd have to go to Boston first.

He continued to think the key was Wallace. If Wallace was a double agent, then Memo would be coming for him soon. But if Wallace was working for Oblivion, he could be equally as dangerous. He felt the same uncertainty about Wilhelm and Seven. For all he knew they could be double agents working for Memo too. He felt a pain again as he thought of Seven. If her warning was sincere, maybe she'd felt something for him after all.

How could he have gotten himself into such a mess so quickly?
He'd simply wanted to remember his childhood better, to improve his memory, and somehow he'd gotten into a situation where his very life was in danger. There must be some flaw in him that caused this to happen. But why had Memo chosen him? Was it his very blandness and reliability that influenced their decision? One thing he knew, he wasn't suited to work undercover for anyone.

The phone rang and he stood frozen in his spot before answering on the fifth ring. Whoever was on the other end listened to him say hello and then hung up. Instinctively, he looked out his window on West End Avenue and thought he saw someone move behind a dumpster. Reaching in his pocket, where he'd put both kinds of pills, he swallowed an Oblivion. He decided then to leave from the basement exit, which he didn't think either organization knew about.

If I think about my home, things will get better, he said to himself, already forming an image of his aging mother's welcoming arms, as he got in the elevator and began his descent.

“Do you like this room?”

“Yes, it's very nice.”

“You don't say that with much conviction,” he said, leaning forward in his chair, which faced her on the sofa.

“It's a fine room, really. It looks like it's your entertainment center.”

“Why do you say that?”

She pulled back some of the hair that had fallen over her eyes, hair that she now realized was the same color brown as his. “Because there're so many things here that are entertaining … like your giant TV and your stereo.”

“Do you think the TV is too big?”

“No, it's a wonderful size. It must be great to watch movies on.”

He seemed to relax a bit but was still looking at her intently, as if checking her face against an identification card.

“Did you like the restaurant we went to tonight?”

“Yes, very much.”

“The food, the service … did it live up to your expectations?”

“It exceeded them.”

“And was your crème brûlée all right? I remember you hesitated before choosing it. Was it too sweet or too bitter?”

“It was too good. I hadn't meant to eat all of it. I meant to share some of it with you, but I guess it turned me into a little pig,” she said, laughing for a few seconds.

He nodded and watched her drink her gin and tonic.

“So did the restaurant seem the kind of place you thought we should go to? I mean on a second date. Did it meet those expectations?”

“Yes, of course. I mean I didn't have any expectations … I”

“Why not?”

“Anything would have been fine but what you chose was excellent, just right. Why are you asking me all these questions? It's starting to make me a little nervous.”

“Do you really want to know?”

“Yes, I do,” she said, finishing her drink and setting it down on the glass table in front of them. He watched her cross her legs—her skirt just above her knees—before answering her.

“It's because of the last woman I was with.”

“Oh.”

“There are probably other factors involved, but for the most part I lay this at her feet.”

She made a supportive sound that stopped just short of being a word.

“You look mystified,” he said. “See, just before she left me she said I never asked if she was happy, so now I've learned to ask.”

“OK, I understand,” she said, nodding.

He also nodded, as if imitating her, and finished his drink. “You may be wondering why I didn't ask you any of these questions during our first date. It's because I figured I'd get my answer
when I asked you out again. That if you said yes it meant you liked the first date.”

“I did like the first date. I liked it quite a bit.”

“I guess you think I'm being silly saying all this since you're here in my condominium, right?”

“It's not silly,” she said, straightening her skirt so that it was at knee level now or perhaps just below.

“Hey,” the man said, his green eyes suddenly becoming animated, “are you in the mood to play a game?”

“What kind of game?” she said, smiling and wondering if he was finally going to make a move.

“A surprising game. A game you would never think of playing.”

She looked at him—it was as if a whole new side of his personality was suddenly opening like a door revealing a garden. It gave her more hope about him since he'd seemed a trifle bland until now, although also very nice.

“Everyone likes surprises if they're fun,” she said.

“Would you like to play one of the games I invented?”

“I'm not sure I understand. You mean a board game or …?”

“No, this isn't the kind of game you could buy in a store. We play it with our minds.”

“Well, maybe you could tell me about it first.”

“I invented it a few minutes ago while you were asking me why I asked you so many questions. Here's how it works. One of us plays the role of God, I mean the typical Christian all-knowing God, and the other plays a person, or is just ourselves. Don't worry, we can switch roles. Anyway, God asks the person questions about how he likes the world, and the person asks God if He approves of his behavior as a person.”

She told him she wasn't sure she understood, while trying to
camouflage her disappointment. He assured her she would understand and said he'd start off by playing God.

“Did you like the sunset I created today?” he said. “Go ahead, answer.”

She looked a little flustered. “Yes, it was beautiful,” she said, managing to smile.

“Now ask about something specific you did and whether God approves of it. Go on.”

“I don't know. I can't think.”

“OK, OK,” the man said, holding up his hands. “You play God and I'll ask you the human questions.”