The World of the End (17 page)

“But how the hell do you plan on finding my wife?”

“Come over tomorrow afternoon and we’ll talk about it. I’ve got a few other clients, you know…,” he said, yawning.

“Okay, so what now?” Ben asked.

“Now? Now you go home, hang the picture on the wall, and stare at the artist’s brilliant beauty mark,” the Mad Hop said, tossing the pen off into the dark horizon.

13

Stigmata

“Ormus, I mean, Yonatan. It’ll take me some time to get used to your real name. It’s only been two days since our first date and I’m still trying to calm down. I found you flat on your back. A major heart attack. I called an ambulance but the big hospitals were full because of the bombing. That’s why you’re here, at this small hospital. Truth is, I have no idea what they did. All I know is that when you came out of surgery, they hooked you straight up to life support, and now everyone’s just waiting for you to wake up. I wonder what Rushdie would say—even he never dreamed that when Vina and Ormus finally meet, Ormus would be unconscious. It’s strange, but when I first saw you, I wasn’t surprised. I had a strong feeling that you didn’t look the part of the knight in shining armor. But it felt good. I already had one of those guys—looked like a million dollars but wasn’t worth a penny. Anyway, what am I blabbering about? You know all about him. What else do I have to report? As you can imagine I haven’t totally acclimated, although on Tuesday I interviewed Gabriel Din, the plastic artist whose work is going to be exhibited at the Biennale. Fascinating guy. Apart from that, I’ve been getting calls every couple of hours from my friends back at the Paris office, checking that I’m still alive. My boss’s been asking where I disappear to twice a day. Obviously I don’t tell him. It’s like those stories I used to read in the papers and crack up. I couldn’t believe they actually happened. And it’s not just us, Yonatan. You wouldn’t believe what happened here two hours ago. Really intense drama just over on the other side of this room. So, I guess you have no clue who’s lying in the other bed, also hooked up to life support? Rafael Kolanski, the famous painter. From what I understand, he’s been here for the past six weeks. He had a brain aneurism of some sort. They were supposed to disconnect him this morning. They’d given up hope. His wife was here and the weird nurse who’s been caring for you, and the hospital director, a lawyer, and two other nurses. I peeked through the curtain that divides the room. I had to see it. The scene reminded me of Greenaway. Or Polanski. The lot of them huddled around his bed like some kind of mystical sect, everyone saying a few words, except for the wife, who stood there in silence, shaking. The plug was to be pulled at ten. When they were done, the small nurse made her way over to the side of the bed and put her hand on the switch. The time was one minute to ten. The artist’s wife took his hand in hers and continued to tremble. I swear I could hear the rattle in her teeth. Other than that there was total silence in the room. I don’t know how many seconds passed but all of a sudden we heard a giggle. Rolling and cute, girly. Everyone looked around trying to discover who was behind the tactlessness, only to find that the old woman, twenty-five seconds short of widowhood, was giggling like a little girl who had just pulled off the most delightful of pranks. For a second I thought that, you know, she had lost her mind. The hospital director asked her why she was giggling, and she said, ‘He’s … tickling … me.’ Of course I didn’t understand what she was saying but they explained it to me afterwards. Then she went stiff, stopped laughing, and called out, bemused ‘he’s tickling me.’ The thickheaded nurse must have been daydreaming or something, because she still had her hand on the switch and was ready to flip it. The doctor shouted, slapped her hand away. She turned from the machine and, like everyone else in the room, stared at the old man’s hand. After that I had a hard time telling what was going on, but there was plenty of hooting and hollering and I was able to tell that his pinkie was moving. Amazing, no? A man’s life was saved because his pinkie came back to life and at the perfect time. After that they started to celebrate, even ordered champagne. Bessie, the artist’s wife, asked me to join them.

“His awakening was thrilling. When he opened his eyes, she went wild, crying, laughing, letting out all that had been bottled inside for weeks. I drank the bubbly wine with them and heard the doctor say that what happened was a medical miracle. Everyone started to trickle out and I told Bessie I was really happy for her. She thanked me and listened to the doctor’s orders. He told the artist to take it easy, saying he would have to run a few tests and that in the meanwhile he may have trouble speaking. The old man was so cute, he acted like he’d just come back from Mars, smiling with half his mouth at his happy wife. Once the doctor left, only the nurse remained in the room with Bessie and the old man.

“Yonatan, I really felt sorry for her. She went up to Bessie and tried to shake her hand but she ignored her. The nurse couldn’t take Bessie’s withering looks any longer. She left the room. I came back to you, sat by your side for something like five more minutes, and then heard a sudden shriek. I ran over to see what had happened, scared he had fallen back into a coma, but it was nothing like that. I asked Bessie why she looked so ghastly. She said that if she could kill the nurse, she would. I smiled knowingly, even though I didn’t really understand what made her yell like that. Then she shrieked again. ‘Look, look what that needless piece of trash did.’ She raised the artist’s left hand and asked me to look at it. Yonatan, it was so weird. Right in the center of his palm, in blue ink, it said ‘There’s Life After Death.’ In English. Under different circumstances, I would’ve burst out laughing. But just then I understood why the old woman was so angry. She says that the nurse wrote those words on his hand because, as someone who thoughtlessly pulls the plug on human lives, she wanted to soothe her own conscience, and also, to raise Bessie’s spirits, so she’d know that she’d be with her man again, you know, like in all those ridiculous stories about lovers reuniting in paradise. I tried to calm her down, but she was furious. She said she was going to talk to the hospital director. An hour later she came back into the room, a Napoleonic smile spread across her face. The director suspended Ann, that’s the nurse, for a week without pay. A slap on the wrist to appease the artist’s wife. Bessie said that at first the director didn’t believe her and that he called Ann to his office and questioned her. She swore she had nothing to do with it. Bessie pointed to the pen Ann had in her hand and asked what more of a smoking gun he would need. Ann looked baffled and said that everyone has a blue ballpoint pen. Between us, Yonatan, this is no Minette Walters story. It’s obvious she did it, although I should say that my gut feeling is she had an ulterior motive. At any rate, the director apologized to Bessie and asked for her discretion in the entire matter. He said Ann was one of the best, most devoted nurses he had and that he didn’t want a one-time slip to tarnish her reputation. Bessie agreed and the controversy passed. Small, sweet doses of revenge always help settle things down. Bessie went to freshen up and Ann was sent away for a week. I guess one of the other nurses here will replace her and take care of you for the time being. Actually, Ormus, Vina’s got to go, too. Got to bang out an article on the reading habits of children in the age of Harry Potter. Seems like an interesting thing to look at—do Israeli kids read other books, outside the realm of J.K. Rowling, great as she may be? Darling, I hope you don’t mind that I have to go now. I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon. I’ve got two exhibits and a movie. Just remember, honey, you owe me an Indian meal.”

14

Bizarre Aeronautical Circumstances

For the third time in the past three days, Ben found himself sitting opposite the smiling midget, wondering what it was about this supremely confident man. “Quit looking so worried, Ben. I guarantee you that within several months at the latest you’ll be back with your wife again.”

“Why such confidence?” Ben asked.

“Why such doubt?” he answered, smiling and pouring himself a glass of wine.

“Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m finding it hard to be optimistic when my wife has disappeared and I don’t have a clue where she is.”

The Mad Hop sipped the wine, shut his eyes, and purred, “There’s always a clue.”

Before Ben had a chance to figure out where his friend was going with that last morsel, the latter opened his eyes, licked his lips and asked, “What kind of music does Marian like?”

Ben smiled. “She likes it all. Operas, jazz, country, punk, world music, trip-hop…”

“Rock. What about some old-fashioned rock ’n’ roll—does she like that?” the Mad Hop cut him short.

“Sure! She’s crazy about rock.”

“When you say crazy…”

“I mean she was always buying CDs, never wanting to miss a new album. She was … she is enormously curious. If you haven’t picked this up already, Marian was a culture fiend, went from one thrill to the next, movies, books, discs, plays, exhibits, shows. One time I asked her why she buys so many CDs, and she smiled and said it was all part of her retirement plan. Eyes glistening, she said, ‘Ben, think how much fun it’ll be. We’ll have time to listen to everything, see everything, get to know everything.…’

“I laughed and asked her if she thought that at age sixty-five we’d be listening to The Smashing Pumpkins. She nodded and whispered, ‘Yes, albeit at a lower volume.’”

The Mad Hop poured some more wine, his face shining with satisfaction. “Told you there’s always a clue.”

“Once again you insist on opacity.”

“Not at all,” the Mad Hop said, fitting his fingers together. “I know, for example, where Marian is going to be during the coming three days.”

“Excuse me?” Ben said, his body coiling.

“It’s a safe bet to say you know nothing of the Forever Young Festival, eh? Every year, between the twenty-fifth and twenty-seventh of June, the Other World has its biggest rock concert. Three straight days of gigs. It’s the big event for rockers. Morrison, Lennon, Joplin, Mercury, Hendrix, Buckley, Drake, Cobain, Bonham, Curtis, and friends all share the same stage. Fifty brilliant artists that ended their lives under tragic circumstances but never lost their hunger for music. Your wife will definitely be in the mix with all the rest.”

“Where’s it held?” Ben asked.

The Mad Hop smiled forlornly. “I wouldn’t get excited. Park 1945. Nine million fans attended last year. Could be a bit tricky spotting a woman in the middle of nine million revelers.”

“So what do you suggest?” Ben asked.

“Such a shame she died in a car accident,” the Mad Hop said, lighting a cigarette.

Under his appraising gaze Ben started to blink at a rapid rate. “What do you mean?”

“Had she died in a less common manner, it might have been of help.”

“In what way?” Ben asked, unable to keep the tremor out of his voice.

“What does it matter, she died in a car accident, didn’t she?”

Ben was ready to respond, but he held the words on his tongue when the private investigator dropped the chattiness from his voice and said, “Or are you finally going to tell me how she really left the previous world, a fact that may well help the investigation get off the ground.”

“How did you know?” Ben asked, evading the quick hunter’s eyes.

The Mad Hop stretched, outwardly pleased. “Remember when you told me that your wife died in a car accident and I had one of those uncontrollable laughing fits?”

“How could I forget?”

“Good. You may not believe me, but I wasn’t laughing because I lack tact.”

“Why else would you laugh?”

“I laughed because you lied.”

“How did you know I lied?”

“I laughed.”

Ben chuckled. “Clearing the lines of communication between us wouldn’t hurt.”

“I already mentioned you might not believe me, but still I wouldn’t want to deny you this piece of information. At a young age I realized I had a special radar. You could say I’m a walking, talking polygraph machine.”

Ben sat at attention. “Polygraph? You’re telling me you can detect liars?”

“Lies,” he corrected. “One lie doesn’t make you a liar, otherwise I never would’ve taken on your case. You see what I’m saying? The bursts of laughter are my needles, dancing to the tune of someone’s lie. You’ve the right to regard this information as you see fit, but I ask that you not test me on purpose—I’m not a toy.”

“Samuel, hold on, what you’re saying is sensational. As soon as someone lies your body reacts with uncontrollable laughter. How does it know?”

“That’s the gift, my mysterious talent, I reckon.”

After a silence, he added, “And now if you’d be so kind as to explain why you lied, I’d be ever so grateful.”

Ben sank deep into his chair. “I was afraid you wouldn’t believe me.”

“Why?”

“Samuel, the cause of my wife’s death is so strange it seems to defy human logic … it…”

“How the hell did she die?” the Mad Hop yelled, cutting him short.

Ben answered with an equally angry scream. “She fell off the fucking Ferris wheel.”

*   *   *

Twitches and ticks spread across the Mad Hop’s face like a crack through ice, his body started to palpitate, and he hammered the table with his fist. Had Ben not seen the strange nature of the private eye’s laugh before, he wouldn’t have known how to put an end to the fit. He snapped open the drawer, pulled out the gun, aimed at the Mad Hop’s head, and squeezed the trigger.

Between heaves of laughter, the private eye sounded jovial. “Ben, I forgot to get bullets.…”

Ben tossed the useless weapon back in the drawer and slammed it shut. “You still don’t believe me?”

The Mad Hop shook his head vigorously. “No, this time it’s just funny! Woman flies off Ferris wheel, perishes. God, just when you feel like you’ve seen it all, death does you one better. Ben, wife or no wife, you must admit this is hilarious.”

Although, after fifteen months of captivity, there was a giggle squirming to get out, Ben pursed his lips and kept it caged. The Mad Hop showed no sign of relenting, tapping Ben’s arm, growling, “Ben, please, don’t be such a self-important old fart, and show me you’re human. I know it’s your wife, and she’s the most precious thing in the whole world, but look me in the eye and tell me that if this happened to someone else you wouldn’t be bent over with laughter. Ben, your wife flew … off the Ferris wheel. That’s the most slapstick death I’ve ever heard of … We’ve seen this kind of thing in the cartoons, but in real life … oh, my jaw’s breaking … imagine what would have happened had she lived through the whole thing. What would she tell people when they asked her how she’d been paralyzed? I flew off the giant Ferris wheel and into a wheelchair?!”