Assisted Living

Paul and Leonas Meet

On Saturday, the weather decaying, as fast-moving clouds usher in a period of rain, Paul Scudery slides into his Hyundai and takes to the highway towards Marietta Billiards. This Saturday, Mr. Eight Ball is hosting a tournament, so there will be no tables available for outsiders. Paul drives to Marietta and pulls up to Marietta Billiards just as the front door unlocks. A young woman with horn-rimmed glasses, tattoos of tiny birds up to her cheeks, greets him. They have met frequently. She does not even ask him where he wants to play. She hands him a rack of balls for Table Four and steps up to her computer to punch in an order for a medium Champion burger, hold the mayo, and steak fries with hot sauce. Two minutes later, she brings Paul a glass of ice water.

“Here’s your water. Your burger’s cooking,” she says. This is what she always says.

“I’m hungry,” Paul answers. That is what he always says. She smiles and walks away.

Later in the afternoon, the space will become raucous. Every table will be in play. But for now, the pool hall is quiet. Paul likes shooting alone. There are half a dozen players spread around the very large hall which features some thirty pool tables. They will not disturb him, he knows. He bends over, rubs the shaft with a cloth. He is shooting fairly well. He has a new stick that cost about $200 and which he is testing for the second time. The cue ball seems enamored of this stick and speeds into balls, one after the other, sinking them in succession. Paul is pleased.

In another ten minutes, the girl sets his meal onto a table behind his table.

“I hope he didn’t overcook it,” she says.

“I like it well,” Paul replies.

“But the steak fries are hot and fresh,” she adds.

He thanks her, leans his stick against the table, and raises the burger to his lips.

At this moment, his old life is about to stop dead in its tracks, and Paul will enter a new phase, a phase for which he is completely unprepared. Without warning, his vision blurs. He shrugs it off. As he leans down to shoot a ball, still chewing, his eyesight fails. Clouding over, his eyes strain. Straightening, he shakes his head to dissipate the fog, but there is no relief. Balls on the table form distinct shadows, producing halos. Suddenly, the muscles in his left arm, the arm which cradles the stick, begin to falter, then twitch. He stops uncomprehendingly. He stares at the muscles in his right arm nervously jerking, trampolining, and suddenly, without volition, his stick drops to the floor. Now Paul realizes that something awful, maybe perilous, something truly out of his control, is taking place, and he looks up and around. He is about to yell something, but only letters scatter throughout his mouth, without words issuing. He sees several players chatting, bent over their tables, and as he continues to look about, his biceps pursuing their weird flamboyant dance, a one-horned beast enters the hall, a beast the size of a legendary monster, stampeding through the pool room rushing through one green felt table after the other. He realizes now that he is hallucinating. Grasping awareness of the confusion of his body and the disorientation of his mind, he tries to call out, but nothing emerges. Spittle. A drop falls. And suddenly, he loses muscular control throughout, sinks to the ground like a discarded puppet, pain throbbing through his body, now spreading, his eyes closing.

When he re-opens them, he is terrified of what is happening, breathing virulently.

“Take it easy,” a man’s voice intones softly. “I got you.”

He realizes that his head is in the lap of the man whose voice he hears. It is a reassuring voice, but not one he recognizes.

“I’m sick,” he whispers to the man.

“Yes, I know you sick,” the man replies comfortingly. “I already call an ambulance for you.”

“Thank you,” Paul says and reaches for the man’s hand to press it.

“I seen you here before. I also seen you at Mr. Eight’s.”

“Yes,” Paul says, still breathing hard.

“This happen to you before?” The man asks.

“Never,” Paul whispers. “God, I’m afraid”.

“I’m wid you,” the man says, pressing Paul’s hand. “Just relax now.”

In a moment, other men surround him. One says he had medical experience with the Afghan military. He calls for a glass of water.

“When the ambulance comes,” Paul whispers to them: “Pack my sticks.”

This causes everyone to chuckle. “We’ll pack your sticks with you. Is this your case?” the medical man asks holding it up.

“Yes.” His breathing is a bit shallower now. He hears a man speaking to another man in a drawl. “Face is red. I bet his blood pressure is through the roof.”

“We unscrewed your stick and put it in the case for you to take to the hospital,” another man says. He motions to the man holding Paul’s head to lift it so that Paul can sip water.

Just then, the ambulance arrives. Efficiently, almost wordlessly, paramedics lift Paul onto a stretcher. They are wheeling Paul out of the hall. “Wait,” he says to them. He looks up through the haze into the eyes of the black man walking next to the stretcher. “What’s your name?”

“They call me Snake,” the man says.

Paul reaches for his hand and squeezes it. “Thank you so much,” he whispers.

“Take it easy,” Snake replies and releases Paul’s hand. “I put my number on your phone,” he says. “Just in case you need me.”

Outside it is raining, the wind has picked up buffeting his face. Paul blinks fast.

“We’ll get you into the ambulance in a jiffy, a woman says to him, a woman wearing a uniform. We can drop you at the local hospital, Kennestone.

“I prefer Northside.”

“Sure,” the woman says. “Northside, it is. Want me to call anybody?”

“Yes,” he replies, “my friend Maddie. Phone number on my Iphone.” The involuntary twitching has subsided and he can see better now.

“You nauseous?” The attendant asks him.

“Not much.” Now he tries to lift his head up. He raises his hand. “A little.”

“I’ll give you something to settle your stomach,” the attendant offers, and hands Paul a pill. “Chew it,” he says. Paul complies and tries to lean forward.

“What happened to me?” He asks.

“We don’t know,” the attendant replies. He takes off his glasses and cleans them with a solution. Then he dials Maddie’s number.

“You’ll get admitted to the hospital, and they’ll tell you what’s up,” the attendant adds after a minute. “Now, just lean back and enjoy the ride.” But Paul cannot. The ride is bumpy and, for the first time, he truly feels nauseous. He tries to relax, to contain himself. An Asian thing he learned. Let the nausea, the fear ride through and out. His nausea lessons. In his head he hears the incessant shrill blare of the ambulance cutting through heavy traffic.

When he arrives, Maddie is already there, legs wide apart as if standing were an effort. She is bearing a grim expression on her face. Scowling tends to make her look ugly. Paul turns his head.

“What the fuck happened?” she asks Paul. Her tone is shrill, her face reddening.

“Let us get him inside. I’m sure they’ll let you chat with him in his room,” the attendant says. He is neither brusque nor rude. He is simply stressing what he has learned that is important to do and to say in the moment.

In the room, Paul is transferred onto a hospital bed. His clothes have disappeared and he is wearing a white robe. He has no memory of his clothes leaving his body. Sighing, he closes his eyes.

“Don’t you fall asleep on me,” Maddie says to him. “I want you to tell me exactly what happened.”

Opening his eyes, he tries to sit up. “Maddie, I don’t know. Everything started to swim out of nowhere, and I started hallucinating and could hardly speak.”

“Did you have a bowel movement today?” she asks him.

This makes him giggle into a heavy cough. “You’re a piece of work, Maddie. Not every injury is expressed in the bowels.”

Maddie sits heavily onto a chair and fidgets with the rim of the collar of her sweater. She plays with one shoe, kicking it partially off her foot, then back on.

“Hell of a day to do this,” she says. “It’s raining like God is testing the ark.”

“So, it’s your bad day,” Paul muses. “Maybe it’s your hair that is fucking everything up.”

“Today is a terrible hair day,” Maddie smiles. “Don’t treat me like this,” she scolds softly. “I’m so worried about you. How did you call the ambulance?”

Paul pauses for an instant. “I’m thirsty now,” he says, but there is nothing to drink. He sits up. “A black man I never saw before came to my rescue. A gentle man who took me in his arms and cuddled me until help came,” he continues. “A man who calls himself Snake.”

Maddie laughs. “A man named Snake? They give you drugs in the ambulance?”

“My mind is clear as a bell,” Paul replies, “his name was Snake. You don’t forget a name like that.”

Just then, a nurse enters to usher Maddie out.

“I’m gonna start an IV on you,” the girl says. She is a pretty girl with an educated voice and hair partially blond, partially purple. She sticks the back of Paul’s hand, bandages it, and starts the IV stream. “I’m crazy about your veins,” she gushes. “They’re raised. Isn’t every day we get to jab good veins.”

Fifteen minutes later, two men enter his room. One of them is wearing a white coat. The other has on a jacket and a bow tie. “I’m the weekend surgeon”, he says.

“Surgeon?” Paul asks nervously.

“Just in case you need something quick….jiffy lube weekend work,” the man laughs.

Paul sits up clumsily. “I don’t need surgery.”

“We’ll be the best judge of that,” the man in the bow tie affirms. He says his name is Clark. Dr. Winslow Clark. The other man is the floor chief, Dr. Nehi.

“We’ll run some tests on you,” Dr. Nehi says.

“How are you feeling right now?” Dr. Clark asks.

“Brilliantly,” Paul says. In fact, he is feeling weak and undone, but he does not wish to expose this impression to the surgeon.

“Good to hear,” the doctor smiles. “We’ll see how you do when we’ve sucked out a gallon or so of your blood.” He straightens up. “Just joshing. Tell me what happened to you.”

Paul relates his collapse. “It never happened before. You have a guess?”

“Could be lots of things,” Dr. Nehi remarks. “Lots of things. We’ll know more in a bit.”

“I’m thirsty,” Paul says.

“No drinking, no eating until we scope out the problem,” Dr. Nehi says. “The IV will make sure you don’t get dehydrated.”

“What else is there while decaying in a hospital but eat and drink?” Paul muses.

“Watch tv. Read a book. Social media. Watch the cute nurses watching you.” Dr. Clark offers.

The twitching has altogether stopped. A nurse enters to take his vital signs.

“Almost normal,” Dr. Nehi says. “But something abnormal has happened to you and we need to locate its cause. I hope you have tons of insurance. This may take a while.”

Three days pass, days in which Paul is subjected to one test after the other. Blood work two or three times a day. He no longer thinks Dr. Clark was kidding about the blood leaving his veins. Scopes. Proddings. X rays. Three days without food. By this time, Paul has lost interest in eating. Periodically he gets up, walks around the room tethered to the IV which is both unmanageable and occasionally painful. He has trouble wheeling it in and out of the bathroom.

Every morning, Dr. Nehi and Dr. Clark appear in a jovial mood to ask Paul questions, make notations. They still will not permit him a meal or anything to drink. They have to be certain, they say, that surgery is not necessary at a moment’s notice. One evening, they enter his room with a woman. She has a pretty, angular face, and she is tall, towering over both doctors. Her contribution to the proceedings: she provides the feminine touch, the soothing moment of the day when kind, gentle words are supposed to make the waiting, the thirst, the impatience dissipate. Maddie finds the woman insufferable, but Paul says she provides a speck of amusement in a day when there is so little.

On the fourth morning, first, the two male doctors enter. This time they are trailed by another doctor, one who sports a mustache and beard. He says his name is Dr. Joseph Regriant.

“I think we have the solution,” Dr. Regriant remarks. “It took a while to uncover it,” he adds, quite proud of his achievement.

“Would you like to share it with us?” Maddie asks impatiently.

The doctor’s grin fades. He clears his throat. “Of course. Mr. Scudery, you have Creutzfeldt-Jacob disease.”

“Which is what exactly?”

“You have heard of mad cow disease?”

Paul stifles a giggle. “I hardly eat mad cows,” he replies.

“Nonetheless, it is the condition you have. It is caused by a prion which may, in your case, have risen spontaneously.”

“Impossible! Paul answers lasciviously. ”I don’t have anything that rises spontaneously.”

But Dr. Regriant is not smiling now. “I’m afraid that it is not a joke. And furthermore, I hope you are ready for this. He clears his throat. It is fatal.”

“Not instantly fatal,” Dr. Nehi adds hurriedly.

“You’re shitting me,” Paul says cautiously.

“You may have less than a year to live,” Dr. Clark insists.

“An hour ago, I had decades to live. And now, it just got condensed into one year. He thinks this over. No cure?”

“None.”

“Treatment?”

“None terribly effective,” Dr. Regriant replies. “However, there is a clinic in France which has done out-of-the-box research into the subject. They are a subsidiary of a French pharmaceutical company. Nothing approximating a cure, but they are working on an experimental treatment.”

Paul’s muscles, he realizes, have grown rigid, so tense they are taut to a straining point. He now tries to ease them into a flaccid position.

“How about it, Maddie?” He asks her. “Shall we go to France and check out a treatment that may or may not work?”

Maddie stands up, pauses, looks away. “I wish I could, Paul, but I have to get back to New York to work on the series. Many more weeks of taping,” she adds. “I’d come over then.”

“Sure,” Paul says. “Sure. He tries to hide his resentment. “I’d like to be alone now,” he says, ushering everyone out of the room with a wave. Maddie presses his hand and leaves. For an hour, he lies back bemoaning his fate. Funny, he says to himself, I always thought cancer would get me. Lung cancer. After all, I smoked for twenty-plus years. Or maybe a heart attack. I’m at the age where that could happen at any moment. Mad Cow! Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy, he finally says to himself. Something had to kill me, right?

Paul and Snake Solidify Their Bond

On a day of brittle cold, Snake slides through the uneven concrete slit that leads to his mother’s hovel. He sees the glow of a fire burning. Acidic odors wafting into his nostrils…shakes them off. He lowers himself gingerly. As he lands onto the floor a wall of dust spurts upwards. Crap settling in his nostrils. He wishes he had not worn sandals. Voices echo through the rubble. A soft laugh, then a chuckle. A raised voice. He spies a needle on the floor. He pulls his shirt collar around his neck. On the other side, a bearded white man with his left ear inflamed red is limping towards him.

“Whatcha want?” the man hurls at him. A man with large owl steel eyes and a bandaged hand, bandaged with paper and scotch tape.

“Lookin’ for my momma,” Snake replies, undeterred. “You cut youself?”

“A reptile with massive molars did this,” the man replies. “But I don’t think it’s infected. Did you bring your momma any goodies?” The man asks sweetly, revealing a row of jagged, yellowing teeth.

“Like money?”

“You know what I talkin’. And I don’t mean jujubes.”

“I ain’t on drugs.”

“Then get the holy fuckin’ fuck out of here.” the man trumpets.

“I do it,” Snake replies brushing the man aside, “as soon as I talk with my momma.”

“And don’t you come back!” The man chortles. “Don’t you bring your holy fuckin’ black ass back here without goodies. The infinitely sweet, Splenda goodies, he adds. You know which goodies I be referrin’ to.”

Snake locates his momma wrapped in a Fedex carton, face down on a cloth which he believes may be a shirt. When she lifts her face, he sees that it is underwear.

“Momma!”

“Snake!” She looks up bleary-eyed, but she does not rise. Instead, she props up with some difficulty against the wet concrete wall. An odor of staleness rises. She does not smile. She rubs her eyes. I didn’t think I’d see my boy, not here. How’d you find me, Leonas?”

“Nobody call me Leonas anymore,” he complains. “How you doin’?”

“Sit down, Leonas,” she says, patting the box. “You tell that poppa of yours that if he wants me to switch over to the good life then I be needin’ some cash. Liquid stuff,” she adds rolling her fingers.

“I’ll tell him,” Snake says. “But better still, you tell him youself. Get outta dis rattrap, clean youself. Poppa’ll take you back, I promise.”

Deronda looks up with contempt. “So much you know. He hate me. And you know I have no way of cleaning. I got to have enough smack so I can cut back, you know what I mean?”

“I know what you mean,” Snake answers. Hot dust infiltrating his nostrils, he sneezes.

“Momma, I love you too much to do that to you.”

At this moment, Paul Scudery is leaving the CBS studio with another man, a man dressed in a fine Italian suit. A flash of yellow cabs stream by. Jason considers his options. “You sure you’ll be all right to finish out the season?

“You care more about the season than my health…after twenty years….”

“Shit,” the man says, turning to Paul, putting an arm around him. “Of course, I worry about you, but I have a responsibility to the producers to know whether you are well enough to finish. We’re already writing your demise….that was insensitive of me,” he adds quickly. “I mean we’ve got to write you out of the show. So, at the very end, the last segment, you fade away never to return. His fingers make arcs like little birds flying. Tell me again this peculiar disease you are suffering from.”

“Mad Cow,” Paul replies. He cannot quite believe he is saying this without chuckling. Yet, he cannot integrate his sickness into his life.

“Aha, the brain disease?”

“Ultimately, yes, it afflicts both body and brain.”

“But that gives me an idea, Jason says, clapping Paul’s shoulder. A splendid idea for a morbid, but spectacular close!”

“Six or seven more tapings,” Paul mutters.” I should be able to handle that.”

“Each day for an entire day,” Jason warns. “Hope you’re up to it.”

“I’ll be at work every morning without fail,” Paul says, and hails a cab. Stepping into it, he turns for an instant and grins. “Take me out softly, if you would.” Jason waves him away with a gentle smile.

That Saturday, with some trepidation, Paul decides to drive up to Marietta to the same billiard parlor where he collapsed. He knows he needs to overcome his fear. After all, he says to himself, fear is located in memory. It is not real in this moment. With that smug notion, he enters the hall. The tattooed girl rushes up to him and asks him whether he is well. He nods. He doesn’t tell her that she is speaking to a dead man. What good would that do except freak her out? He watches her pressing buttons on her computer as she orders his burger and fries. When she brings him his water, she gently squeezes his arm.

Five minutes have not transpired when the door opens and Snake comes in carrying a cue stick in two pieces.

“What up?” He asks with a smile.

“Just trying to get in a game,” Paul replies. “Wanna play?”

“Yeah,” Snake says, looking concerned, “but not dis minute. Can you run me a favor?”

“Sure,” Paul says, lifting his head and retreating from the table slightly. “What do you need?”

“My car ain’t workin’ good. I need to drive up to the Stick Joint. You know where it at?”

“No.”

“I show you,” Snake says. “Like ten fast miles.”

“What is this about?” Paul says wiping down his stick with a cloth.

“I tell you in the car,” Snake replies. He looks nervous, even unsteady,

They are driving on highway 75. Something uneasy between them in the car. Five miles pass by. Traffic is noisy and heavy on each of seven to eight lanes. Paul’s stomach is growling. He has left the burger on the table and wonders whether it will be there when he returns. Snake has not said a word.

“Are you gonna tell me?” Paul snaps.

Snake looks sheepish. “See this stick? he asks, holding it up.

“Pretty,” Paul remarks.

“Yeah. Worth about $400. I was up at the Stick Joint yesterday and… I grab it.”

“You bought this stick?” Paul questions, almost afraid to suggest the alternative.

“Well, no,” Snake says. “I got no money for a beauty like dis. I kinda like this stick so when nobody lookin’ I walk outta da store wid it.”

“Shit,” Paul remarks, shaking his head.

“But I was thinkin’,” Snake continues, his face in a frown. If I play wid dis stick, somebody gonna see it, it bein’ so beautiful, and put two and two together. You get what I mean?”

“Very true,” Paul nods.

“So, we returning the stick,” Snake concludes, his mouth curling into a slight grin.

“We?” Paul asks. He sees a glint of gold in Snake’s mouth.

“I hopin’ you return it fo’ me,” Snake says, his voice a little wobbly.” If they see my lovely face, they could get nervous and call the cops. You know I been in the can, and this time could be for good.”

“So, you want me to return it for you.”

“Yup.”

He does not hesitate. “Sure. All you got to do is ask.”

“Cause nobody gonna think bad of an old white guy,” Snake adds.

Paul winces at the thought. As they approach the Joint, Snake asks him to stop a couple of hundred yards before the store. “I wait fo’ you here, he says. Don’t say nuthin’ to them ’bout me,” he adds.

“Ok, but don’t get lost,” Paul answers. He drives to the store, unscrews the stick, and carries it in. Immediately a heavy man with a Van Dyck beard and unlaced sneakers approaches.

“Can I help you, sir?”

“I am returning this stick,” Paul says. Slight pause. ”For a friend of mine.”

“How is that?” The man asks, eyes narrowing. He holds the stick up, notices the store tag at the bottom.

Paul continues. “My friend says that he took it by mistake, and asked me to return it for him.”

“We noticed the mistake,” the heavy-set man says. “We truly did and we don’t appreciate mistakes like this,” he adds drily. “And your friend did not personally return the stick. He sent you instead?”

“My friend was ashamed about the mistake,” Paul says. “Anyway, you have the item and no harm has been done.”

“Thank you,” the heavy man replies. He turns and ambles away without shaking hands.

Not respectful, Paul thinks as he leaves the store. Coulda thanked me. In a moment, he has turned the corner and spies Snake sitting on the curb.

“What he say?” Snake asks when they head back onto the highway.

“He said he knew that it was a mistake.”

Snake shakes, tittering with merriment. “That what he say?”

“That’s what the man said.”

Before starting up the car, Paul turns to Snake who is still tittering from the glow of the coup they have pulled off.

“Let me tell you something,” he says to Snake peering directly into his eyes. “I don’t mind you stealing this stick. I myself have stolen an item here and there. What troubles me is that you stole an item which you had to return. This is bad business. You get my meaning?”

Snake fidgets in the front seat. “Sort of.”

Paul continues. “When I was a little guy, I was crazy about mercury. But mercury isn’t available when you want it. So, I went into a department store and found a bunch of thermometers. I looked around, and I didn’t see anybody. So, I stole four of them. My loot was happily burning inside my pocket as if it was a gift from God. But no sooner had I reached the door, when a hand grasped my collar and stopped me cold. It was the store dick, an old guy maybe thirty with a mustache and one eye that had no light in it. He pulled me over to one side and made me empty my pockets. The thermometers fell out. One of them broke and mercury slowly drained down an aisle. The cop told me stealing was against the law, that it was a sin, and that he intended to come to my house that evening to tell my parents what I had done. I ran home sweating and immediately confessed to my parents that I was a thief. Better to hear it from me than the law, I thought. They pretended to be angry with me, but they seemed kinda mellow. They never threatened me once. I was tense awaiting the store dick, but he never showed up. That really pissed me off. I had already confessed unnecessarily without the accusation of this man.”

Snake sits back with a grin. “Never confess,” he says.

“Better still,” Paul corrects him. “Never get caught stealing.”

Snake digests the comment with a frown on his face. “True,” he replies. “I shoulda known that my beautiful stick was gonna be recognized. I shoulda stolen a less expensive one.”

Paul grins and puts his arm around Snake. “A fine lesson learned,” he says smiling.

Back at the billiard parlor, Paul asks to have his burger and fries re-heated. He and Snake begin to play when Snake notices through the swinging door the approach of a towering black man. “That Mudpie,” Snake says, lifting up slowly from his shooting position.

Mudpie approaches in a heavy gait, his chest throbbing, grabs Snake’s arm and pulls him off to one side.

“You still owes me $100”, Mudpie says. He is leaning down over Snake, spitting words through his moustache.

“I gonna get you you’ money,” Snake says looking up and into the man’s eyes. He does not cower.

“When dat?”

“Tomorrow for sure,” Snake says, scratching at his cap.

“Or you can bring me the same in weed.”

“I can get you choice shit,” Snake replies, now smiling. Paul observes his muscles relaxing.

“Tomorrow,” Mudpie says, shaking a finger at him. “No later.”

Watches Mudpie lumber away towards the bar. “You can get weed?”

“Yeah,” Snake says. “But I don’t use,” he protests. “I never use. But I can get it.”

“You know weed might be good for my condition too,” Paul says.

Snake walks over to the raised platform overlooking the tables. He motions Paul to sit down. “How much you want?”

“How much is it?”

“$40 for some,” Snake replies.

“How much is some? An ounce?”

Snake laughs hard. “You kiddin’ me?” He says. “An ounce puts you back in da hundreds.”

“Where you get it?” Paul asks.

“You don’t wanna know,” Snake replies.

“If you get caught with weed, don’t you go back to jail?”

Paul smiles, then stops. “You know why they calls me Snake? It’s because I can move between da officers of da law,” he says, his hands slithering like a serpent, “and they don’t even know I been there. Like some invisible man. You don’t gotta worry none. I get you some,” Snake avers.

He watches Snake as he walks around the table setting up the balls for a break. The man still wears oversized black pants with a drawstring which he has to tighten periodically lest his pants fall down. A white t-shirt too blousy for him, crowned by his omni-present black, polyester, round cap.

“Can you play without the cap?” Paul asks

“Shit, yeah,” Snake says, and takes it off. Now he lowers his head to reveal a tattoo of the American flag covering his scalp.

“Super patriotic,” Paul beams ironically.

Paul is ready to break, but something is wrong. Bending over to shoot, he realizes that his muscles have stiffened in his right arm. He straightens up.

“Go ahead and break,” Snake calls out.

As Paul bends forward, his arm becomes rigid and he cannot shoot. Helpless, he turns towards Snake. “You better break,” he whispers, his breathing now labored. His eyes revolve towards the large room, players at their tables laughing, and yet for some reason, he can no longer quite grasp that he is in a pool room. Eyes distorting what he sees, his mind clouds over.

“Somethin’ wrong?” Snake asks him.

“I can’t understand you,” Paul replies with a rasp.

“I askin’ if you got problem.”

Paul laughs. “Oh, that’s what you said. Well, no. I have no problems except”…. Unable to finish this sentence, Paul topples, strikes his head on the edge of the wooden corner, and instantly slides down the pool table, the stick falling from his hands.

“You sick?”

“Where the fuck am I?” Paul whispers just before losing consciousness.

Ari Bloom Gets an Offer

Ari is wearing his new Brooks Brother suit, the one with the pinstripe in white over a black fabric. He sets this off with a dark blue shirt and a pink tie. In his right hand, he carries his leather suitcase, the one from Gucci, which Lilou gave him for his birthday. In it, the usual reams of papers related to the brokerage accounts of some twenty-five good clients.

Today, however, as he leaves his apartment, he receives a phone call. An unusual phone call.

“Ari Bloom,” he says into the receiver.

“Mr. Bloom,” the voice intones, “we would like you to visit with us this morning. An important visit, if you will. Even if you don’t will, you should, no you must come if you care for your future. It will be strategically important for you. Trust me. The address is…”

“Excuse me,” Ari says, stops walking down the street. “Do I know you?”

“Not yet,” the man responds with a rasp in his voice. “Not yet.”

“So why should I meet with you?”

“Mr. Bloom. It is possible that a fortune awaits you.”

Ari stops, takes out a handkerchief and brushes his lips. “Now I know you’re shitting me,” he says with a half chuckle.

“In fact, you will not be meeting with me, but with my superior to show you the gravity and majesty of this interview.” The man gives him an address. It is a building near IKEA. Ari has passed it many times. A skyscraper, the outside of which is all shimmering glass.

Ari calls his office. He learns that he has no appointments but one until the afternoon. He tells Kathie to reschedule the appointment. that he won’t be in for a while. Fuck it, he says to himself. Why shouldn’t I take this little adventure. Of course, it is all bullshit, but I could use a belly laugh this morning. He stops at a Starbuck to order a coffee, sipping it as he walks down the street. Another ten minutes and he will be at IKEA.

He turns to see a car matching him step by step. Standing in the front seat, a man with a large camera trained on Ari. Somehow, this does not trouble him. He assumes that whoever called him would have information about his life, his daily habits. But he does not smile at the camera. He is not interested in having his picture taken. Ari walks on in his typical gait which most would call rather measured, coffee warming his belly.

As he approaches the skyscraper, his eyes are drawn upwards. The morning sun is shimmering off the skin of the glass building, reverberating off several other buildings and settling harshly into his eyes. He closes them, takes out his sunglasses and positions them carefully.

At the building, he enters through a revolving steel door. He finds himself in an atrium full of people milling, a panoply of people rushing. He fancies that they could just as well be mice or insects crisscrossing the silver and blue marble floor, some heading towards elevators, others towards stairs. Ahead, a desk. The man behind the desk is in uniform. Security of some kind. Ari gives his name.

The guard checks a sheet, then points to a row of seats in a corner. “Wait there, please,” he says. “Someone will be with you shortly.” Sitting there with a half dozen men dressed similarly in suits and ties, each guarding a briefcase, Ari wonders what could possibly distinguish him from anyone else. The thought jolts him, and he sits up straight. To his left, before the elevators, he looks at a scene of well-dressed young women wearing heels. One turns to him, a brunette with glasses, slim with a solid posture. Their eyes lock, a faint smile forming on her lips. Ari looks down.

Seemingly out of nowhere, a man strides through the crowd as if parting a sea, and offers Ari his hand. The man is dressed in a pink pin-striped suit with a pink bowtie.

“Lucas,” he remarks, pointing to his nose identifying himself. He takes Ari by the arm and navigates him towards the rear of the lobby to a set of storage elevators.

Two burly men enter the elevator with Lucas and Ari. The elevator has beige cloth linings. It goes down without strain or noise. Then down some more. To Ari, it feels as if he has descended ten or more stories.

“Where are we going?” he asks Lucas nervously.

“We’re here,” Lucas rings out. “Here we are. Are we on planet earth, Ari? Of course, we are, for we are here,” he jokes. The door swings open. Before Ari, there unfolds a corridor of faded green paint. Dim lights flicker along the ceiling.

“Where is here?” Ari asks. He can literally feel his blood pressure rising.

“Why, this is where your meeting shall occur,” Lucas says and leads Ari another hundred yards or so before a rickety, timbered door. He pushes it, and as they enter, a bevy of lights burst showering the room with shooting flames. It takes Aria an instant to clear and focus his eyes. Now he takes in the room. It is enormous. In addition, it has an upstairs reined in by railings, each section holding one hundred seats. The upstairs is only partially full. A low whisper scurries around the room as they enter. Below, in the center of the arena, the size too massive to be called a room, there is a set of three steps. They lead to a pulpit behind which a woman stands.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Bloom,” the woman says.

Ari responds likewise. As soon as the words have left his mouth, they echo throughout the arena as if dispersed section through section. A huge cheer rises, flags are raised, some of them with the word Ari painted in large green and plum lettering.

Ari moves forward. “You see,” Lucas says, “there is nothing to fear. Everyone wants to be close to you.”

For Lucas to say such a thing mystifies Ari. How could they embrace someone they have never met. I’m not a media personality! Ari is, after all, a simple financial consultant.

“I’m sure you have many questions,” the woman says to Ari. She is old. How old he cannot discern for there is a veil over her face. Still, he can discern several wrinkles. She offers him a slim hand encrusted with colorful stones which he shakes gingerly. The hand remains out. “Kiss her digits,” Lucas murmurs in Ari’s ear. Ari thinks this is cool and kisses each of the woman’s fingers.

“What’s your name?” Ari asks.

The woman who appears to be in her late sixties, raises the veil which covers her face. “My name is Legion,” she answers in a low whistle. He can now see one large, left eye significantly bigger than the other, slabs of mascara about the eyes and a pink crème pasted over sinking jowls.

“Is that a first or a last name?”

She looks over at him scornfully. “It is my name,” she counters.

Ari says nothing. He has begun to worry. The arena, the people with signs, Lucas, and now the queer older lady have left him with a pounding in his stomach.

Legion points him near a table around which sit some twenty men drinking beer and chatting to one another in low voices. At a nearby table, she sits across from Ari.

“Here is why I have invited you, my friend,” she says. She clicks her fingers and instantly a man appears with two steins of beer. “To your health,” she proclaims as if she were making a royal toast, raising the stein to her lips.

“And to yours,” Ari says, lifting his stein. The beer is tasty and he takes in a larger volume. As he does so, he notices encrusted on the ceramic, a bevy of signs and symbols. Besides the Nazi symbol, he fails to recognize others. He takes a sip and lowers the stein.

“I see you are curious about the art work,” Legion remarks. ’All of these steins were created hundreds of years ago in India. But let us not be distracted by cups worth only a few million francs. I like you. From the moment you walked into my chambers, I saw the potential in you. Curious, thoughtful, you are a man of our times. Also, you have access to powerful, legit computers which are available to use day or night. Such a blessing to have access to powerful electronics! What a thrill it must be! If I had such weaponry, I should clearly be Queen, not just for the day, but in perpetuity.” Legion is perspiring, rising for a moment as she speaks, then sitting. Ari judges that she suffers from restless body symptoms. “Thus, I should like to engage you,” Legion continues, a finger with a large velvet nail circling in the air. “I have a financial proposition for you, one which I think you would be ignorant, perhaps stupid, and moreover foolish to refuse.” As if she had launched a signal, the twenty or so men at the other table stop chatting instantaneously, empty their steins in a unison gulp, and file one by one out of the chamber.

“We,” Legion begins, turning first to the left, then to the right, and turning entirely before continuing, “have a bit of money which we care to transfer from one account to another account. You get my drift, eh? She pauses before continuing and gesticulating. Here is account number 1. Here is account number 2. I take your stein and put it in my cave. She continues her index finger twirling tiny circles in front of her face.

“You want to transfer money,” Ari says simply.

“Yes,” Legion goes on, turning in three directions, before proceeding. “Did I convey that it was a hefty slice of money?”

“Yes, you did. But how much is a slice?”

“It must go out in tranches until it reaches a billion.”

“You mean a million, don’t you?”

Legion pulls up her collar around her neck and holds the collar by her nails as if she were trying to contain herself. “I can tell the difference quite easily,” she sneers, “between a million and a billion. One is much bigger than the other.”

“Not on the internet. It’s all digits. Go to your bank and have them send it online.”

Legion bangs her fist on the table hard leaving a trickle of blood from a shattered nail. She puts the bleeding digit to her face and sucks. “But this is the problem! You have masterfully put your knowledge squarely on the issue. Firstly, we are not citizens of this country. Secondly, money in such large transactions would prompt an investigation into our dealings. This means that your government would sadly learn who the recipient of the money was and, even worse, would know who we are. This ‘we’ Includes me.”

Ari bends forward. “You are asking me to send money internationally illegally.”

“You are so smart,” Legion beams and places a hand on his wrist.

“I haven’t done illegal transactions,” Ari replies firmly.

“How about one for a million dollars?” She sits back while Aris is digesting the amount. “Perhaps I can order another brew for you?”

Ari shifts in his seat. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t do such a transaction. But you must swear to give me no details.”

Legion gulps her beer, wiping her mouth on her wrist. “I don’t see how you can transfer such funds while knowing nothing. If that is the condition, I could snag a gent off the street, any gent, and offer him the same job for quite a bit less than I am offering you.”

“Still, that is my condition. If I know nothing, I can reveal nothing. Isn’t that to your benefit?”

“True, so it is.” She takes her hands and puts her fingers around each of Ari’s cheek, massaging Ari’s jowls slowly. “I follow your pertinent logic and applaud it. So, you shall do it?”

Ari shifts uncomfortably in his seat. ”I would be committing an illegal act. My ethics are easily offended.”

“Ever been offended a million different ways, my amusing little computer genius?”

Ari has been mulling the offer carefully. “True, I could afford to take a long vacation abroad. “

Legion is now standing behind Ari massaging his neck. “So, I shall call you in 48 hours for you to inform me whether you are in. You, of course, shall be an In. Otherwise, you shall be an Out, and my group rarely permits an In to be an Out. Do you see, my Schatz?”

All of this leaves Ari befuddled. He treads down the street in a daze. He stops at a Starbucks, orders a coffee and sits in the back hoping to avoid other customers. Immediately, an acquaintance, Buddy Bruder spies him and sits down at his table. After five minutes of chitchat, Buddy decides that he can find a better conversationalist than Ari, perhaps in a cemetery. He finishes his latte and leaves.

Ari can now devote his full attention to the matter at hand. He decides to approach it logically. One million dollars is, after all, a considerable sum. While it is fair to say that Ari has been successful as a broker, his salary and commissions only support a good lifestyle in a decent apartment. He is able to enjoy himself traveling or at a club or a theatre. He considers what a million dollars looks like, how the green and white bills, stiff at this moment of their printing, are able to meet all of his objectives. A million dollars would vault him into the limelight of the capitalist gods. All things would become touchable, available. Obviously, not a fabulous yacht, but most certainly the ability to travel abroad first-class and secure a seat in the best restaurants. Terribly appealing, he mumbles to himself. He sighs. On the other hand, it is decidedly a crime to launder monies. If caught, he would certainly spend wretched years in prison. What were the chances of that? He had no idea who would be watching such large currency moves and whether they could be traced back to him. The risk is too great, he grumbles. Moreover, ethically, it is simply wrong. He is delving through the weakness of both arguments. Yet, we don’t really live in an ethnically motived world anymore, he prods himself. He is now speaking out loud. To the contrary, everyone is out for himself. We pretend to love our neighbor, and the fact is that we rarely do. We covet money, the beauty of the woman our neighbor holds in his arms, the health of the young jock who lives down the streets and who will not have to swallow morning meds for another forty years. Capitalism is a wonderful theory, but it leaves many wanting. Why shouldn’t I enjoy the banquet that is offered me? I may never again have such a chance.

First night, he cannot sleep. He tosses, gets up, watches TV, returns to bed, tosses some more, rises angrily kicking the bed frame which is clearly responsible for his restlessness, drinks a scotch, returns to a sleepless bed in a fury. The day rolls by without any movement, any intervention, on his part. He feels as if he can do nothing but await Legion’s next call. By the middle of the following night, he wakes up with trembling legs which cannot stop beating the mattress throughout the night. He has made his decision. Legion calls him at the appointed hour.

“I have decided,” Ari says, his mouth dry. “I can’t bring myself to do this. I thank you for the magnificent offer, but I am not going to take it.”

The line could be dead, for in the next minute there is no sound emanating from either end. “Are you still there?” Ari asks.

“You disappoint me,” Legion responds softly. “Not enough loot for you? Perhaps another half million?”

“It’s not the money,” Aris responds earnestly.

“I don’t accept your answer,” Legion says flatly.

This response floors Ari. “What are you saying?”

“I simply cannot accept such an answer,” Legion declares. “Look, I am going to give you another 48 hours to reconsider. I shall dial you up again. And I know that eventually you will revisit the opportunity that you have missed and that you shall snatch it.”

“I don’t think so,” Ari says and hangs up.

Sleep eludes him again over both nights. Instead of sheep, he tries to focus on an imaginary bundle of thousand-dollar bills walloped by a strong wind over a cliff. This, of course, is the wrong direction. He modifies the climate. Now, he watches thousand-dollar bills gently slide into his account, one after the other, numbers accruing until he has reached a million. At that point, still without sleep, he gets up and begins to empty a bottle of bourbon.

The choice is simple enough. Take a risk over a short period of time. Return to the office in the shank of the evening when presumably no one still lingers, stick a thumb drive into a computer, and send millions, hundreds of millions, elsewhere with the click of a finger. Once accomplished, a million smackeroos would be his to have and to hold. He can see himself in the first-class area of a super-plane, some frilly thing straightening out her dress next to him, lifting her champagne flute in his honor, promising him endless carnal delights. In fact, why wait? In his expansive imagination, he takes her at once into the bathroom and has her mount him on the toilet.

Good enough. But what happens if he is detected. Suppose the cleaning folk, their vacuums screaming, lights blaring, crash into him, report him, as they are working their nocturnal rounds. Suppose the FBI or some other federal group is monitoring digital shipments of large sums of money. As Ari turns this page, his next vision is of himself in solitary feeding roaches with morsels of the stale bread served at lunch. Underneath this layer of concern is the one which mom and pop must have imbued in him. He doesn’t remember either mom or dad. Perhaps their names, their lives, have come up once or twice in the last twenty years, but they elude him. If someone asked him what business his dad does, he would look at them blankly. He would not have this information unless it were specifically spelled out in written form for him. Lacking this knowledge does not trouble him in the least. There are many things about life which he has not grasped or are outside his purview. But somehow, he feels as if these nameless ancestors have created within him a sense of right and wrong. It is wrong to wire a billion unless the feds say it isn’t. That is the bottom line for Ari. He knows how to respond to Legion now. When she calls, politely, he declines her offer.

“You are a fool,” Legion snarls. She sounds in this moment like a panting bear.

“I’m sorry. You made a generous offer, but I cannot do it.”

“Pussy,” she snarls.

“I wish,” he says, now a bit fatigued.

“You will regret your decision,” she continues, “and if I were a betting woman which I am, I would bet on you rendering this little service for me when all is said and done.”

At home, Saint Ari reclines in his fauteuil. He is beaming with purity, with righteousness exuding throughout the apartment like a golden cloud. He wonders whether any other human on the soil of this planet has ever turned down a million smackers on ethical grounds. Pleased to the hilt, he sips a vodka. That night, he finally falls asleep quickly and deeply. Still dreaming of mile-high sex with a beautiful lady, stuffing thousand-dollar bills into her bra, he sleeps through the night, awakening in the morning as droplets of sweat trickle down his face. He showers, dresses, dons his favorite suit and tie, unlocks the door to his apartment, turns once to retrieve his briefcase, and as he steps forward, is tripped by two taut wires ankle height. Ari goes airborne, spinning into the wall headfirst and landing with a thud against the opposite wall. Consciousness drains from him, his mind shattering in a thousand directions, his eyes retreating. When they reopen, he is in a strange environment, a hospital room. A nurse is standing facing outwards, looking across a field at a bus that has just left. He learns from her that he has been in the hospital a day and a half.

“My briefcase? My clothing?”

“All safe, honey,” she says. “Do you need me to call someone?”

“Call someone? He responds dopily.

“Yes, a wife, child, neighbor, grandfather….?”

“Oh no,” Ari responds. I have no one.”

The nurse turns towards him. ’Listen now good, honey. Don’t fret. You got me.”

Later, a doctor tells him that they would like to keep him for another day to see whether he has bleeding in the brain. Late that evening, as visitor hours close, Legion opens the door with a bouquet of roses.

“I hope you like the red ones,” she says, reaching for a vase in the closet. “I prefer the yellow ones but could not find any on short notice.”

“What are you doing here?” He asks.

“I wanted to make sure you were ok.”

“After trying to kill me?”

Legion sits on a corner of the bed and snickers. “Kill you? Hardly. Just a little message we were conveying. Did you get it?”

“Loud and clear,” he responds.

“You see, my Schatz, we never give up, don’t you know?”

“I could go to the cops.”

“And tell them that you tripped? Not very convincing evidence.”

He thinks this over. “You’ve got me by the balls,” Ari concedes.

“You better check to see they are still attached. “Sorry, she muses. “A small joke.” Ari, however, is looking downwards momentarily, turns in his seat before issuing a sigh of relief.

“All right, I’ll do it,” he says sadly, raising his head to watch his ethics falling by the wayside.

“Do you mean it, Schatz?” Legion purrs.

“I get that you will kill me if I don’t.”

“Oh no,” Legion protests, caressing Ari’s cheek with one hand. “Perhaps slice off an inch or two from your voluminous dick…but murder? No, that is not what we do.” Then she adds the coup de grace: “You can survive even if you are dickless, don’t you know?”

Two nights later, Legion and Ari enter the building at 34th street where Ari works. It is two in the morning. The guard at the front desk hardly looks up as Ari slides his pass at the front door. Legion, dressed completely in black, and comfortable navigating the shadows, sometimes appears to be part of the hallway rather than separated from it. She hovers closely behind Ari, crouching so that she mimics a medium size dog rather than a human being.

“Did you bring a revolver?” she asks, panting in his ear.

Annoyed, Ari puts a finger in front of his mouth to indicate how complete silence must be. They enter his space. Before him, a white, plastic cubicle. He illuminates a soft light and sits gingerly in his usual seat. The computer lights up. He presses the thumb drive from Legion into the slot and follows directions. He is sweating now. “Do you need to have a potty break?” she whispers in his ear.

He looks at her as if she were insane, but does not reply.

Legion has left nothing to chance. Ari needs only click where he is asked to wire the money effortlessly abroad. Ari does not even look at the receiving bank nor at the numbers which fly by him on the screen.

“One more minute,” Legion says in a quiet yet triumphant voice. “You doing good,” she says to Ari, slapping him on the neck.

Once they leave, outside the building, Legion is almost a different person. She looks happy and speaks with a dulcet voice where once it had been strident.

“Mine Schatz,” she coos into Ari’s ear, “You did a good job tonight and so your dick is preserved in its birth state.”

Ari stops Legion on the sidewalk, and blurts out: “Isn’t there something you have for me?”

Now Legion looks blank for a moment, and then, her face bursts open like a marigold, “Your reward, of course,” she says, as if she were a pea-brain to have forgotten it, and reaches into her purse. She pulls out an envelope and hands it to him. Picking it up, Ari can tell that the contents are light. He is already feeling hot under the collar as he struggles to open the envelope. Inside, there are ten bills of one hundred dollars each. Ari looks at the contents. “This is major league light.”

Legion retorts: “Blame me, Schatzy. I only brought a sample. We had such little time to convert into lots of cash. But your wad is coming. What you have now is breakfast money. You should go into the Waldorf restaurant and eat your heart out. You wanted waffles but couldn’t afford them in the past. Buy two, no, three orders. Eggs? Have them make you a Kremlin omelet. This is a half dozen eggs into which one puts copious stuffings of vodka, spring rolls, and vegetables in a sweet and sour sauce made from the entrails of groundhogs. As I speak of it, my stomach is fluttering so much do I crave this breakfast.”

Ari looks at her as if she had lost her mind. “I don’t eat breakfast,” he says. “What I want to know is when do I have the million you promised?”

“Patience, Schatzy, patience,” she intones. “Know that I am working on this currency transfer even as we speak. True, I was somewhat unprepared because you were waffling to and fro like jello so that I could not know whether you’d carry out the job. But the monies are winging towards you, my boy. Soon, you will take a million-dollar bath with thousands of green and whities fluttering from heaven down into the bathtub, rubbing up against your little, pink body. So, Schatz, good night. Thank you for your work, but hand over the thumb drive which you thought I had forgotten. Impossible, my bumbling friend, that I should forget it or surrender it to you. If you ever looked into my hot-wired brain, everything is as always as it is supposed to be. Nothing escapes it. Adios, Schatz. I’ll be in touch.” With these memorable words, Legion vanishes into the dark of the night as if swallowed by the absence of light. Ari walks home in some disarray. True, he has accomplished the task, but he is not proud of it, and every time he thinks about the envelope, he feels sick to his stomach.

Two days later, after work, there is a knock on his door. Two men. He opens it. One is rather short and wide, the other thin and tall. Both men are well dressed and groomed and speak with a smile on their faces. “Ari Bloom?” one of the men asks.

“Present,” Ari replies as he sued to do in school

“FBI. You are under arrest.”

Ari Bloom Regains Consciousness

“Ari! Wake up! Yes, you. Open your eyes.”

Ariel Bloom shifts in his bed, striking the rails with his elbows. He opens his eyes. Overhead lights pain them. They close again.

“Ari!” The man speaks again, this time louder. “I see your fingers moving. I know you’re awake. Open your eyes”.

Ari’s eyes strain open with difficulty. In front of him, through a band of fog encircling him, he distinguishes the shape of a man. His fog is pervasive, obscuring much of the room. In an instant, he recognizes that the fog is not outside of him, that it is within, and that it does not permeate this room.

“Do I know you?” he whispers. “Who are you?”

“We do know one another,” the man replies. “In fact, I could say we are friends. My name is Morris. Morris Green.”

“Morris Green,” Ari repeats to himself. “But frankly I don’t remember you”.

“I am a longstanding friend,” Morris replies.

Ari does not recognize the voice. Suspicious now. He tries to sit up, but cannot. He looks up at the face of the man before him, a face that resonates a sliver of remembrance, the balding pate, the round face with a short, aquiline nose, and regular smiling lips. Yes, lips he thinks smile too much, too often to be genuine, a man younger than he by some ten years. Ari looks around, the fog lifting slightly. In a bed. A white bed with railings. A hospital bed! Now he can hear the whirring of a machine to which he is tethered sounding off the beep of his blood pressure mounting. He sits up, tubes converging onto the back of his hands, shifting as he turns.

“Easy, Ari, you have an IV. You’ll pull it out if you’re not careful.”

Scent of ammonia, cleansing fluids, sterility in his nostrils. He wants to spit. Blinking, he tries to speak, but the saliva in his mouth is lacking. No words issue. Yet, he is certain that his lips are moving, forming words without sound. He tries again.

“Morris….that is your name, eh? what happened? Where am I?” he whispers, slumping back. His hand is trembling, arms twitching slightly.

Now the man standing in front of him, a man in jeans and a white sweater, comes fully into view.

“You had a setback,” Morris replies gently. His voice is raspy, jagged at the beginnings of each consonant. “You collapsed in a pool room.”

“I collapsed,” Ari repeats in wonderment, his eyes now widening.

“Yes, you were shooting pool, I was told. The man you were playing with called 911. They took you to Northside in an ambulance.”

“But you…how did you get involved with this situation?”

Morris smiles in his usual manner, the lips curling up to reveal small, unmanicured teeth.

“I’ll tell you about that later, if you don’t mind. No, you couldn’t be revived in the pool hall, so they looked through your wallet and found Maddie’s phone number.”

“Maddie?” Ari replies weakly, uncomprehendingly.

“Your ex-wife, Maddie. You do remember that you were married to her at one time.”

“Maddie?” Ari whispers almost helplessly. Clearly, by the look on his face, he has no idea who Morris is referring to.

Morris sits down at the edge of the bed and takes Ari’s hand in his. “You don’t recall much, do you? Do you remember that I called you Paul? Several times.”

“Paul?”

“Yes, I called you Paul, but you did not reply. So, then I was uncertain what to do. You must have a name, I said to myself. Finally, I hit on Ari Bloom.”

“But that is my name,” Ari replies firmly. “Ari Bloom.”

“You’re sure about that, are you?”

“Yes,” Ari says. “Of course.”

Morris Green looks askance at his friend. Now 70, Ari Bloom’s face has sprouted a sparse white beard dotted with assorted flecks of black. The man is thin and wan. His usual red pallor siphoned away, absorbed by the dazzling whiteness of the sheets and the room. Something in the air strikes Ari as totally uncommon. Not only the light, what little there is of it, but the weight of the air. It seems lithe, porous, more ephemeral than he recalls. He wonders how he is able to gauge the weight of air. Morris takes his hand again. “You feel this?”

“Yes,” Ari replies. “So, I am back at Northside again.”

“You were,” Morris replies tentatively. “For quite some time, but eventually they had to move you.”

“To Saint Joe’s?” He asks hopefully. “Maybe Grady?” Not so hopefully.

“No,” Morris answers, squeezing Ari’s hand gently. “No, not Grady.”

Just then, a man in a white robe approaches and leans over Ari’s body. He is a small man with broad-rimmed green-tinted glasses and a heavy beard. He exudes a scent of perspiration and a sweetish, berry fragrance, a cologne.

“You are now awake?” He asks gently with a strong accent.

“Yes, you are my doctor?”

“Yes, Doctor Pinchon. Philippe Pinchon.”

“What is wrong with me, Doctor? And just as important, when can I get out of here?”

Dr. Pinchon smiles openly. “Not for some time,” he replies.

“I passed out. Was I dehydrated?”

“How do you feel?” The doctor is asking as he is listening to Ari’s breathing with his stethoscope.

“I’m not sure,” Ari replies, ”but I think I am well enough to leave. Not terribly fond of hospitals, you see.”

“Not possible,” the doctor replies firmly. “You must remain in this room for the next several…days.” He turns to a nurse. “Les stores,” he says to her quietly. “Ouvrez-les”. The nurse opens the blinds to let in unfiltered rays of sun which flood the room. Sunlight so bountiful that Ari must close his eyes.

Doctor Pinchon props up his patient electrically.

“You speak French,” he says to the doctor with astonishment in his voice. “And so does your nurse.”

“Yes,” Dr. Pinchon says.” We both speak French.”

Ari shifts nervously in his bed. “Look, Doctor, stop pussyfooting around. Just tell me what happened to me.”

“Yes,” Dr. Pinchon replies in a matter-of-fact voice, “but when I do. I shall ask you to give me enough time to explain fully. Do you agree?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“You may not understand this at first. You have acquired a disease, a rather rare disease named Creutzfeldt-Jacob.”

Uncomprehending, Ari asks him to repeat it. He shifts his head so that he can hear clearly what the doctor is about to tell him. “I have heard of this disease, but I do not remember what it is.”

“We call this the Mad Cow Disease.”

Now Ari smiles. The smile is followed by a soft chuckle which gurgles up in his throat. He reaches for a cup of water on the nightstand and drinks it in one gulp.

“You are kidding,” he bursts out almost gleefully.

“No,” Doctor Pinchon replies, “not at all.” But he can see by his patient’s smiling face that Ari believes someone is playing a joke on him. So, he turns to Morris.

“Your doctor is telling you the truth,” Morris states firmly. “He is quite serious about this diagnosis.”

“But what does it mean?” Ari says, his smile retreating.

The doctor clears his throat. “It means,” he says, “that you have contracted a rather rare disease. My friend, you are one in a million. Maybe one hundred million.”

“Well, that’s comforting,” Ari blurts out cynically.

“We don’t know a great deal about this disease. Not even how you contracted it. It is possible that some time ago you ate contaminated meat, but more likely it appeared in you spontaneously through some other infection or perhaps even genetically.”

“Swell,” Ari says. “Although I’m not much a red meat eater. I don’t recall when last I had an ordinary burger or a steak. I’m Jewish, you know, and I try to keep kosher.”

“Still, if you think back, you may have eaten meat that was infected a year or so ago. The incubation period before the malady blossoms is quite extended.”

Leaning forward, Ari’s mind feels less confused. “But this is like food poisoning, isn’t it? You feel sick for a day or two, maybe you pass out, you throw up, or you keep a date with a toilet every ten minutes overnight. But then it’s over, n’est-ce pas?”

“I’m afraid not,” Dr. Pinchon remarks, looking into Ari’s eyes. “Your eyes are quite large. You can blink, yes?”

Ari blinks.

“Bien,” the Doctor says. “I’m afraid this disease is quite serious. In fact, it is fatal.”

Ari blinks again. “You mean I am going to get quite ill from it?”

Dr. Pinchon says nothing for an instant.

Ari has let the words sink in. “You think I’m going to die from this ridiculous disease? Somebody eats a burger, and a year later, he kicks the bucket? I don’t believe it.”

“Dr. Pinchon is not kidding,” Morris says with a more serious tone. “I wish he were.”

Ari is blinking rapidly now. “Let me get my head around this. A while back, not too long ago, I was doing great. I was working frequently despite my 70 years and feeling as if the world was at my feet. You know that I was a financial analyst, a damn good one. A few weeks later, you…cut to the chase. How long do I have?”

“Less than a year,” the doctor says.

Ari says nothing, his face crinkling. “It’s not splendid news,” Morris says, “I know.”

“Could have been a tad better,” Ari agrees. “So, I have about a year. And what do I do during this year? There’s not even any suspense as to how it will end? Not even very good theatre.” He is sitting up quite straight.

“Everything will become clear to you soon,” Dr. Pinchon assures him. “But you have just come out of a rather extended coma, and you need your rest. We will take this subject up again tomorrow or when next you are feeling up to it.”

A white night. Ari is unable to close his eyes for any period of time. He considers his mortality, imagination running amuck, projecting his last days, cringing, cowering before the imagined end, wondering whether it will be as painful as he supposes. How will he be able to relinquish everything he has learned, has experienced over the past 70 years. For Ari is an atheist. He believes in this life and what he can see before him. It is only the now that interests him, for his past is forever gone leaving but minor traces, while the future may or may not eventuate. Ultimately, the future for Ari will cease and relatively quickly. That future, the possibility of happiness, has perished in the most inconceivable, stupidest manner possible. Writhing on the bed in mental agony. True, he feels no physical pain at this moment. Perhaps they have made an error, one that he must challenge in the days to come. Ari always thought that were he to die, a concept heretofore foreign to him, one that he had considered only with sly humor, it must be in the arms of a buxom, beautiful woman. Instead, he is told that his demise will take place in some hospital bed in France, perhaps in intolerable agony. After several hours of rumination, he settles down a bit. Yes, he says to himself, we all owe a death, everyone must of course die. Then what was the point of it, after all? The years on earth, the learning, the achievements, the relationships. In fact, he must now admit to himself, all of it is meaningless. Totally! What he enjoyed, that was good, and what was difficult, painful, even unbearable, had no value outside of the moment it was experienced. It reminds him of Hemingway’s injunction: ‘Morality is what you feel good after.’ In a peculiar way, from the moment of our birth, we may have passing remembrances, rituals, but, in fact, all of our life is in attendant, anxious preparation to return to the void from which we sprang.

In the morning, Doctor Pinchon is at his bedside. This day, he appears more cheerful. This, from a man who exhibits little joy. Everything about him smells of the business he is undertaking. His joy, the little he exhibits, comes about through the exercise of his work. “In case you forgot the tail end of our conversation last night,” the doctor starts in, “I want to make sure you understand the parameters of your illness.”

“I have been wrestling with it all night,” Ari replies quietly. “But go ahead. Maybe there is something I missed. Maybe you can tell me what it will be like for me at the end.”

The color now seems to recede on the doctor’s lips as he speaks. Speaking carefully, leans close to Ari, intimately. “This disease is nothing like food poisoning which you likened it to last night,” he begins. “Food poisoning you vomit, you push it back into the environment. Perhaps through diarrhea, you suffer abdominal pains, but after a time, your body’s immune system strikes back, and you recover quite nicely. Even quickly. But for your disease, sadly, there is no cure. To put the matter to you bluntly,” he says straightening idly his bowtie, “once the crazy cow enters, there is no return.”

“I’m awfully confused right now. My God,” Ari continues, his muscles stiffening, “I am really going to die from this thing.” Droplets of sweat form on his brow.

“We are working to contain its progress,” the doctor says, perhaps slow it, ”and that is why you are here in my clinic.”

“I’m perplexed,” Ari says. “Tell me that there is some treatment.”

“Yes” Dr. Pinchon answers. “That is the right question to ask, and you are in luck, my friend. We have developed an experimental drug with which we are in the process of treating you. At the very least, we expect this medicine may prolong your life.”

“But not cure the illness?” Looking at his hands which are slightly shaking, he tries to still the palsy. “Shit, shit, shit!” he curses under his breath.

The doctor shrugs. “We do not yet know how well it works. We can but hope for the best.”

“But, doctor, except for a round of the shakes, today I feel fit as a fiddle. I kinda feel that what you are telling me is unbelievable.”

“Only temporary, I fear,” the doctor answers. As he speaks, he is feeling Ari’s thyroid, moves down to his lymph nodes. His lips tighten. I want to tell you the truth, M. Bloom. If the drug works on you, you shall have perhaps a year to live, possibly a few months longer. But that is all I wish to say this moment.” With that, the doctor ushers out the nurse with quick hand movements as well as Morris.

“I am tired,” Ari agrees morosely, “but before you go, tell me where I am.”

The doctor smacks his lips together in a Gallic frown. “You are in France, in Nancy, at the Institut des Biotherapies.”

Frowns. “How did I get here? I don’t remember flying over.” Flustered, he slouches down into the bed. “I could have died just as well in Atlanta,” he continues. “Why didn’t you all leave me there?”

Dr. Pinchon rubs his eyeglasses with the hem of his white robe. “Because here, we possess a special treatment unavailable in the States which may prolong your life. Even if this is not the case, the treatment will provide you with sensations only available in this institute.”

“And this you know how?”

“Because the rodents who have ingested our pills have all had remarkable experiences.”

“The rats told you they appreciated your drugs?” Ari giggles. “And the people? What do they say about it?” Ari adds hopefully.

“Alors,” he replies, “you are among the first…there are a few others here with us in Nancy.”

“I don’t even recall coming here,” Ari says. “How did this happen?”

The doctor now closes the curtains to darken the room. “Your friend, Morris, helped bring you here. You seemed the ideal person to try our medication. Ideal! He pronounces it in the French manner as if there were an accent over the ‘e’.

“Ideal?”

“Yes, because we know that you dream, and we also know that you, as an actor, are someone who may lose himself in a role outside himself.”

“You are confusing me, doctor. I am a financial planner, Dr. Pinchon. As for acting, besides the role I played on Law and Order, if in fact I did so, I remember no other such experiences.”

“Too much information for the moment. I shall tell you more tomorrow. In the interim, rest. We will awaken you later for some solid food and also to introduce the new drug. Rest easy, Monsieur Bloom. Important things are about to happen to you.”

.

Ari Bloom Dreams

That night, Ari Bloom falls into a laborious sleep. In the morning, awakening as if he were struggling to free himself from a swamp, a dream struggles to enter into consciousness. And when it arrives, when it penetrates Ari’s brain, the dream literally shakes his world. Dreaming is unusual. for he rarely remembers dreams. Yet, this dream is extraordinary. Ari awakens shaking as if he had experienced an astounding experience. Astounding because of the resonance, the pungency of the dream, for he can describe in great and precise detail each and every object and person in it. He can describe not only the sights, but also sounds and smells. For Ari, it is as if the dream has occurred in high sensory definition played and firmly imprinted on the screen of his unconscious mind. Nothing like this has ever happened to Ari previously. He will spend the next hours considering it:

Ari Bloom is standing near an inlet on Lake Lanier on a fine, late spring day. A slight breeze alleviates the heat of the afternoon sun. No clouds blemish the sky. A scent of forsythia permeates the air from a marshy inlet which spices the air with a tinge of salt. Prongs of fronds and weeds push up under the water floating haphazardly onto the water’s surface. Toads are croaking along the shore. A few hundred yards away, a procession of some twenty youths heads towards the water. Shading his eyes, Ari discerns a group of a half dozen girls accompanied by fifteen boys. A young woman leads the group. She is jostling, pushing, crying out to the group to move together as they approach the inlet. All of them wear bathing suits. Each carries a towel. A few of the youths bear picnic baskets which they playfully wave side to side. Up above, the sun is high and piercing. In sparkling humor, many are laughing, cavorting their way to the inlet. Ari can now perfectly hear the young woman addressing one of the boys named Gordon. She is telling him that the water should be warm enough for swimming even though it is not yet summer. Gordon answers with broad grins, teasing the young woman to shed her clothes and join the swim. He snaps at her bottom with his towel. She laughs and jumps away. Behind him, several youngsters leap into the water and swim along the contours of the inlet a few hundred yards in diameter. The young woman demurs. She is a rabbi wishing to maintain decorum. A boy named Ari nears Gordon. The boy is whispering to Ari. Gordon is whispering back that the rabbi feels it improper to divest her clothing in front of her charges. Ari turns to Harriet, the young rabbi, and tells her that she is a spoilsport, that none of the swimmers will be happy this day unless she too joins the crowd in the water, but Harriet balks.

The dreamer, Ari, remembering the dream, is looking closely at the young boy, Ari and, with a shock, recognizes that this boy is familiar, dramatically familiar. Trim, playful, shocks of tumbling yellow hair, brown eyes set back into their sockets as if they were receding. Something very comfortable about this boy, Ari. Ari, the dreamer, gets it now. He was once that boy. It is he himself as a young man of fourteen years. And when Ari, the dreamer, turns to eye the young version of himself leaping into the water, his hands clasped about his knees, he notices that the rabbi has settled herself primly on the shore of the inlet, her skirt neatly wrapped beneath her, allowing only her toes to prod the fronds and pebbles that lie underneath the eddies of the water. Ari the dreamer does not remember her. But he does remember Gordon, yes, Gordon who was once a friend of Ari’s. Ari is a young Jewish boy. His parents, he is just now learning, disappeared in the holocaust and the boy was reared by his aunt. How does the dreamer know this? It is as if his mind were recalling pages of a script laid out before him to memorize. Now, Ari the dreamer trains his eyes closely onto the face of Gordon as if the effort might sharpen his memory. The boy is taller by four inches than Ari, and his face has a creamy pallor. His nose is prominent, while his hair is copper verging on blond. Ari the dreamer follows with interest Gordon’s disappearance into the water. It now occurs to him that nobody can see him. Or can they? He walks up to the rabbi lost in daydreams and flashes two fingers directly in front of her eyes, but Harriet does not respond. Why am I remembering this? the dreamer asks himself. It is because this is not a dream, he says to himself with a shock. This is reality. I know it is, otherwise I could not so intensely feel the heat of the sun, the wetness of the water, the joyous sounds of the jostling kids in the water. While the dreamer is contemplating this mystery, young Ari splashes out of the water shaking himself dry and turns to one of the girls sitting next to the rabbi. He asks her whether she has seen Gordon. The girl shakes her head. Young Ari sees boys and girls splashing, singing and swimming in the inlet. But he does not see Gordon. So, he turns to Harriet and says he believes that Gordon is in the water, perhaps under the water, perhaps deep under the water, where there are fronds and weeds that tug and grasp at one’s ankles. But Harriet only smiles a wispy smile and says, fiddlesticks, that Gordon must have stepped out of the water and is walking along the shore.

For the first time, Ari the dreamer, feels a sense of dread. He stands above the rabbi to say loudly that she cannot know for sure that this boy is not in the water. Harriet looks up, shades her eyes, and smiles. A distant smile. He cannot know whether she has heard him. But now suddenly, young Ari is diving into the water, pushing other swimmers out of the way, and the boy erupts to the surface with panic in his voice, begging them to help search for Gordon. Most of the kids spring out of the water. Two or three dive underneath. In a moment, one of them shoots upwards as if he were projected out of a tube, gasping. He is yelling at the rabbi that Gordon is trapped in the water, ankles imprisoned in heavy fronds, that both his eyes and mouth are open. Harriet turns, blanches, and falls onto her knees to intone a prayer in Hebrew. The dreamer also dives into the water, water which is cool but not icy, and locates the boy, his ankles framed by green plants whose tentacles have seized and claimed him. In that moment, he already knows that the boy is dead and when he swims up to the surface and looks towards the rabbi, she is now jogging awkwardly towards a group of passers-by to ask for their assistance. As if by magic, in a surreal moment, Gordon’s aunt appears loping towards the inlet as if she has been magnetized by the unfolding events. Later she would say she simply wanted to bring Gordon something to eat because his blood sugars might be low, but at the moment, she appears like a troubled angel brought to the foot of the water, watching in total disbelief her nephew raised to the surface, eyes bulging, swollen, yellowish white, vapid and unseeing. Young Ari is on the side of the water sobbing. The dreamer rushes to his side and tries to hold him, but the flesh he can so pungently see and smell sifts through his hands as if it were runoff loosened by water. Young Ari is gripped by profound sorrow. The children can hear him droning that he should have searched for him earlier, that he should have forced the rabbi to hunt for him at once. At this moment, boys and girls are on their knees in shock. The rabbi turns away mumbling to herself, young Ari sobbing, while Gordon’s aunt is perched shaking over the lifeless body of her nephew. The dream dissipates like the lifting of a fog, sights and sounds emptying into the ether.

In the morning, in the clinic, Ari awakens groggy and out of sorts. A nurse, a different one, a male nurse, is in the room gently pulling out his IV and stripping away the bandages which hold it in place. In a moment, a staff member approaches with a tray.

“Solid food,” the man says smiling. A smaller, slightly balding man with a bulbous nose, perhaps fifty years old who moves with deliberate, if effortless movements. He speaks an almost accent-free English.

“You also speak my language,” Ari says, surprised.

“It is a requirement of work here because we have several Anglo patients.”

“So, tell me,” Ari says, fluffing the pillow behind his back, “what is happening here?”

The man smiles, lays down his tray carefully on a bedside table. The smell of coffee wafts into Ari’s nostrils. “I can’t discuss the medical part, but I can assure you everyone is working on your behalf.”

“That’s consoling,” Ari says, thinking that after all their concern is expressed, I am going to die anyway.

As if reading Ari’s thoughts, the nurse throws up his hands and grins. “Eat your eggs.”

“Death,” Ari emphasizes in a challenging voice. “That’s what I was thinking about. Not eggs.”
“What an optimist,” the nurse says laughing. “We are all going to die, of course.”

“At least tell me about the medication I took.”

“That will be for the doctor to explain. He’s running a bit late, but he’ll be here shortly. But whatever you took last night you will be repeating today.”

“Thank you,” Ari says sarcastically. “The eggs are tasty. I also like the baguette.”

“Baguettes are fresh from a bakery on the corner, Chez Caroline. We receive them every morning. Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, deeply, but I had a dream, an impressive dream. It was so powerful it woke me up for a time.”

The man draws nearer. “A dream about your past?

“Yes. No. I don’t truly know, but I believe so.”

The man nods. “This seems to be a pattern of patients. Once they begin meds, they all speak of dreams of their past, often their childhood.”

“Yes. But what was incredible, Ari says, scooting up to receive the tray on his lap, was how realistic this dream felt.” He sips the coffee, the warmth sliding down his throat and into his stomach.

“Perhaps mirroring an event in your life?”

In a way, the question stuns Ari. For some reason, despite the fact that he remembered himself as a young man in the dream, he could not recall whether these events, death, drowning of Gordon, had in fact occurred. “I don’t know for sure,” he finally responds. ”If they happened, it would have been a very long time ago.”

“It will become clearer to you in time,” the nurse says. “My name, by the way, is Bertrand. If you wish more coffee, ring the bell by the night table.”

As Bertrand closes the door behind him, Ari rises, pulls open the curtains to let in the morning. He recalls the conversation he had with Dr. Pinchon the night before. In fact, Ari shudders, he has been put on a rather strict timetable to die. Perhaps in a year, perhaps a trifle longer depending on how well therapy works. Yet, this morning, despite the emotional discomfort of the death sentence, Ari is feeling unbeatable. Shaking off the cobwebs of the night, he feels very well indeed. And now the IV untethered, what can prevent him from getting up and taking a walk? At one time, Ari remembers engaging in exercise. Movement, that’s what it was. True, less so in recent years as he has aged. In the past, he always took an extended morning walk. Until he smashed his knee into a tree playing touch football and his meniscus needed excising. Still, after the surgery, his whippet Amos used to walk with him everywhere. How did Amos come to him?”

Ari recalls the moment in which a woman, some woman quite close to him, he thinks, although for the life of him he cannot just now recall her name, presents him with a baby fawn and white whippet. Ari takes the whippet in his hands and almost in the same moment drops the squiggling pup onto the floor, the dog scurrying under the sofa for cover. Then he and the woman try to dislodge the puppy from beneath the sofa in a series of faulty maneuvers. Strangely, these movements are repeated several times with occasional changes, even pauses, before the episode is over. Since then, Amos becomes a constant companion. So now, who is looking after Amos in his absence? Isn’t this how he met Morris? Morris walked the dog for him, he believes. They lived in the same building, he imagines, although again he is not certain. At my age, after two collapses and hospital stays, he thinks, it’s no wonder I don’t remember anything clearly. Surely, this too shall pass.

A loud knock on the door, followed by Morris entering. Ari thinking: what the hell in Morris doing here? True, he is now clearer that Morris in some way figures in his life story in the past. Yet, he has never thought of Morris as a friend to have undertaken the trip to France yet still, here is Morris beaming, his hair reddening in the morning sunlight. It disturbs Ari. Questions. A thousand questions. As he is beginning to formulate them, Morris is bending over him, extending a veined, large hand.

“Did you sleep?”

“Yes,” Ari responds. “Quite well.”

“You didn’t have to get up?”

“To pee,” Ari replies.

“And dreams…did you have dreams?”

“Yes. I was just telling Bertrand about one.”

Morris gets up. “Tell me also, he says.

“You surely aren’t interested in my night life,” Ari guffaws.

“Not particularly,” Morris says hastily. “Just passing the time.”

With that, Ari relates the dream, not only its content, but its feel, its vivid colors, the moss green of the lawn, the beige of the paths leading to the water, the scent of forsythia.

“Quite remarkable,” Morris concluded. “Remarkable that you had such a vivid vision. Most people don’t ever experience anything close to that.”

“True. This is the first one I’ve had with such pungency. Could it be because of the medication?”

Morris looks down. “I wouldn’t know about that. But the dream doesn’t sound like you, does it?”

“Funny you would say that because in some ways which I can’t understand, I didn’t think it was about me either. “Amos!” Ari says suddenly. “Who is looking after Amos?”

Standing, Morris walks to the window as he answers, opening it slightly. “Your dog,” he replies thoughtfully. “It must be Maddie.”

“Maddie? Who is that?” Ari asks.

“I’m sorry,” Morris replies hastily. “Just a friend. A woman in your building.”

“Maddie,” Ari repeats, the name resonating, and yet he cannot place her. Perhaps she is his regular dog sitter. “Yes,” he says finally, “it must be Maddie.”

The blinds open and the sunlight is now streaming in strongly as their conversation comes to a halt. From his bed, Ari can look out the large rectangular picture window onto a field of mowed grass, the scent of which wafts into the room. Zoysia, he mutters to himself, and wonders how he unearthed this name. I know nothing about grass, he thinks. The only thing I’m sure I know about is money. Just beyond the end of the field, perhaps some fifty yards farther, a helicopter swoops down landing on a helipad. In a moment, its blades slow, then cease. A door opens and a man helps a woman descend from the chopper. Unable to assess the age of the woman or her looks, Ari thinks, but surely a person wearing a dress. The duo cross the field towards the clinic. He is about to ask Morris for a better description of the woman when the door to his room opens.

Dr. Pinchon. Quite cheery this morning, Ari thinks, by his boisterous entrance, the loud, jovial good morning, the hand thrust towards him to squeeze. Pinchon takes Ari’s temperature, then blood pressure, asking him questions about his night, how he is feeling, and whether Ari has chronic conditions that Dr. PInchon does not know about.

The question puzzles Ari. Surely, he must have something. After all, he is a 70-

year old man. As he wracks his mind to answer this rather simple question, several complicated, dreadful diseases occur to him, several which he is convinced at one time he must have contracted. “I think I had some major disease, perhaps even life-threatening ones, he says haltingly, but I’m not really sure.”

“Memory loss, if not outright confusion, is one of the results of your current condition,” the doctor replies. “Patients report that in some instances they see more clearly, smell more acutely, even have moments of heightened lucidity, but in almost every case, memory loss is endemic. But these are exactly the areas we are interested in.”

“You have an interest in dreams,” Ari states quizzically.

The doctor’s lips pooch together into a Gallic frown. “What makes you say such a thing?”

“Because everyone asks me about mine,” Ari replies.

“Well, yes” PInchon concurs, “dreams come about because of the medication. Your dreams are more alive, vivid, no?”

“Perhaps. Yes. Look, I don’t understand anything,” Ari says. “How I came to be here is unclear.”

Dr. Pinchon appears perturbed. “I explained this to you yesterday. I told you that we have the most advanced procedures to deal with Mad Cow, and that is why you are here. Did you forget this?”

“No. I suppose I just can’t swallow it.”

The doctor shrugs. “Sometimes ignorance supplants knowledge. Another benefit of the disease,” he says now almost sadly in tone. He turns on a machine with bright lights and shines it into Ari’s eyes. “Good,” he mutters, after a while. “C’est bien!”

“Would it be possible for me to take a walk outside?” Ari asks.

“Yes,” the doctor replies. “This afternoon when the weather is a bit warmer, we will have one of the nurses take you, but don’t walk more than a few paces today. You may not be strong enough after your coma. Remember also that you are no longer in the prime of life.”

“Nobody ever lets me forget it,” Ari replies. “I feel as if I were a sack of bones held together by glue, glue that could melt at any time. I’d be happy just to take the air and feel the sun,” he adds.

“So, then this is what you shall do this afternoon. Tomorrow, I shall spend more time with you and try to describe a better understanding about what you may expect here from our clinic.”

“I would like that,” Ari says. “I have a multitude of questions.” Lying back into the softness of the bed, Ari has the sensation of free floating to the degree that he almost calls out for help. Instead of finding the solidity of the bed itself, he feels as if he were dissecting the bed, floating through it, through the metal, wood and fiber of the bed itself into a muffled space beyond. In another moment, he drifts into sleep.

That afternoon, Bertrand wheels Ari through the maze of almond-colored corridors, over the blush green vinyl floors and out into the sunshine along a ramp paralleling the steps to the entrance. “So where would you like to sit?” Bertrand asks him.

Ari looks out onto the manicured lawn. There are several picnic tables with umbrellas and benches scattered throughout. “That one,” he says, pointing to one near the helipad near an apricot tree. “It’s nice here, quiet, warm with a bit of a breeze. Is this the weather here in Nancy?”

“Yes, it is,” Bertrand replies. He is lighting up a Gauloise, sucking in the grey smoke through his nose and emitting it out of his mouth. “That’s better,” he admits with a grin. “But there are days the wind that comes in from Germany takes your breath away, even shrinks your privates. Powerful winds sent by the Prussian gods to test one’s fortitude.”

“I would like to walk some,” Ari says, arising. But Bertrand puts his hand on his shoulders gently placing him back into the wheelchair. “It’s too early for you to try this. You’ve been in a coma for more than a week,” he adds.

“A coma,” Ari shudders. “That’s what the doctor said, but I knew nothing about it. For an entire week?”

“Yes, you came to us unconscious.”

Just then two patients near. A man with a beard, and a woman much younger than her companion, perhaps his daughter, a brace encircling one leg, each with a cane, not speaking to one another. The woman is holding onto the man’s arm. He does not look at her, and simply walks slowly down the path. Passing near Ari, they look straight ahead, nor do they speak.

“Be kind to yourself,” Bertrand says, still referring to Ari’s request to walk.

“You be kind and give me a puff of your cigarette,” Ari says with a twinkle.

Grinning, Bertrand first turns to ascertain that no one is observing them from the Institute, and then hands Ari his cigarette. Taking a puff, Ari recoils from the strength of the tobacco, and begins to cough strenuously.

“Say nothing about this, please,” Bertrand begs.

“Of course not,” Ari replies, once he regains his composure. To his right, he notices another wheelchair with a passenger guided by a female nurse moving towards a nearby set of picnic tables. Turning to Bertrand, Ari asks whether he has any water.”

“I can get some from the Institute,” Bertrand replies.

“Fetch me some, please.”

Bertrand smiles. “All right, but promise you’ll be good.”

“That line reminds me of something I used to say, although I don’t remember why,” Ari answers laughing. “I had to repeat it over and over, for some reason. Promise you’ll be good, I said cynically to some guy just before I seduced his daughter.”

“All right,” Bertrand replies, also laughing. “Fortunately, I have no daughter. I’ll be right back. He leaves with large strides towards a side entrance to the Institute. As soon as Bertrand enters the building, Ari rises unsteadily, then begins a tottering walk to the picnic table towards the wheelchair. Now he recognizes the woman who arrived earlier in the day. Dizzy, treading carefully, he makes his way to a bench and sits, looking up to the amused expression of the woman.

“You are one of the inmates?” she asks with a tiny smile forming on her lips.

“Unfortunately, yes,” he says breathing heavily from his exertion. “A recent inmate.”

“I arrived this morning,” she says.

“I saw you fly in,” Ari nods. “As if you were a Greek Goddess, you descended from a cloud, but I think you did not truly need the helicopter to do so.” She smiles, pulls up the collar of her coat. They shake hands, introducing themselves. Her name is Penny. Her handshake is cool, feminine. He notices that the top of her left shoulder is bandaged where she must have had some sort of skin surgery. “Is that painful?” He asks her.

“Not anymore,” she replies. “My name is Penelope Fisher. I am an American as I imagine you are as well.” She is a little woman with brownish, graying hair piled up on top of her head stabilized with a large needle for support. She wears no lipstick. In fact, no make-up at all. But her cheeks are rosy, eyes blue and flashing, and she carries the hint of a little smile always ready to show itself between two tiny lips.

“Yes, from New York,” Ari says. From the corner of his eye, he can see the figure of Bertrand rushing towards him across the field.

“Coincidence,” she says. I’m also from New York.

“I live on….I seem to have forgotten,” Ari says with a dour expression. “I think it is Madison Avenue, but my mind is not working well these days. I have the mad cow thing,” he adds.

“They say I have it as well, but I don’t believe them,” Penelope asserts. She lifts her head to observe a flock of large birds, geese, cackling through the air above them.

“Why not?” He exclaims, quite interested.

“Because I think they are in it for the money, the doctors both in New York and here. They realize that I have some funds…”

“But,” Ari laughs, I think I have little, so your scoundrel theory doesn’t work for everybody.”

“Then may be,” her eyes shine brighter, “you actually have the disease.”

At this moment, Bertrand arrives with a bottle of water in hand, obviously out of sorts.

“M. Bloom, you cannot be walking around like this. You could hurt yourself. If the doctor knew that I had left you, he would be upset with me.”

“Bloom,” she intones softly. “You’re Jewish?

Ari thinks about this for an instant. “Yes, I think I must be Jewish”. Turning to Bertrand, he tries to console him. “Mum’s the word,” he says, his eyes smiling. “This is Penelope.”

“Penny,” she says, extending a small, feminine hand.

Bertrand takes her hand in his and shakes it gently. “Come now,” he says to Ari, “I need you to return to your table.”

That night, they bring him a welter of pills. When he inquires of the nurse which is which, she claims she does not know, that he would have to ask the doctor. But, she adds, they are part of the experimental treatment.

“I never asked to be a rat,” Ari grumbles.

“Oh, but you did,” the nurse replies. From a sheaf of papers at the foot of his bed, she dislodges one bearing the signature of Paul Scudery. “This gave us permission to move you here and to apply the treatment.”

“Well, you’ve made a serious mistake already, for I am not anyone named Paul Scudery, and I have no memory of signing anything. This is all very strange to me,” he says to the nurse. “One minute I am in a pool room in the States, and when I awaken from a rather deep and prolonged sleep, I find myself in a clinic in Nancy, France. You can understand how confusing this is to me. And if I were truly in a coma, how could I have signed this paper?”

His nurse smiles and fluffs up one of his pillows.

Outside in the hallway, Morris is sitting on an iron bench. He gets up hurriedly while inside the room, a nurse is administering Ari his meds. “It is time for making sleep,” she says to him kindly in a strong French accent.” I have a small child at home and every night when I am at home, I say to him: ‘Fais dodo.’ This means have a pleasant sleep with sweet dreams. So now I am saying it to you, M. Bloom. Fais dodo!”

Ari looks up at her, takes her hand and squeezes it. There is a part of me very few people understand, he thinks to himself. When someone tells me to do something, I am sometimes contrary. Lack of respect for authority, I suppose. That must be it. But before he can reason clearly to the conclusion of this notion, he has fallen asleep and, within a short period of time, is swept up into a pungent dream.

When Ari enters the Star of David Memorial chapel, the Watchman arises and leaves. It is the Watchman who has been chosen to oversee the body of the deceased before the arrival of the mourners. First enter the family, the aunt and her two sons. The boys grab hold of her arm to guide her to her seat. Ari stands for a moment to inspect the maple casket without metal clasps. It is closed, but Ari knows that the body of Gordon lies within. Ari hears one of the sons saying to his brother that the body has not been embalmed. Now members of a group, yes, a sacred society who have previously bathed and dressed the body of the boy, appear to the left. They have dressed Gordon in shrouds of pure white linen. There are no pockets in his coverings, thereby symbolizing that we take nothing physical with us into the next world but our past deeds and merits. There are no flowers, considered an unnecessary adornment. Now the Rabbi steps forward dressed in traditional garb. He has a long, flowing, white beard, and recites Psalms and Scripture from the Old Testament. And then he asks Ari to come up to offer a eulogy of his friend.

At the moment the Watchman prepares to depart, Ari the dreamer takes a seat in a pew at the back of the chapel. He observes young Ari leave his seat and walk up to a dais, then turn to face the mourners. There are perhaps twenty-five people in the chapel, one of whom is the boy’s aunt. Now Ari turns to speak in a low but mellifluous voice. He tells of Gordon’s virtues as a friend, how he invariably gave up the single basketball to anyone who asked for it, how, when speaking of girls, it was always with affection and respect.

He stops for an instant, his eyes drawn upwards. Around him, he now notices the stained glass of the chapel. Peacocks in blues and pinks on a blue border of satellite planets. At the center high up there is a large gray dove in stained glass swooping down towards the congregation. The Dreamer is first to observe that something unplanned is taking place, that young Ari is faltering, that the pressure of the eulogy is electrifying, his words and sentiments are falling into the swamp of death. There is a tremolo in the boy’s balance, and the dreamer rushes from his seat in the rear of the chapel to catch Ari as he is about to slip into unconsciousness. Yet even as he approaches the dais, even as Ari is tottering, devolving into nothingness, even as the Dreamer stands prepared to catch himself, the body of young Ari slips through his arms and crashes onto the rosewood platform and into a panel of fragrant candles.

The Rabbi is now up and walking quickly towards the slip of the body, while other mourners are also leaping forward to encircle the wan, unconscious body of the boy. Ari, the dreamer, can smell the Rabbi’s scent, so close is he to the man. He smells a mixture of smoke, spring fragrance and wine, and is now facing the man at close range so that he can distinguish every little wrinkle in his face, the movement of his lips struggling, mumbling, then speaking, and the shading of his eyes as he bends over the body of young Ari, and ingests with difficulty the upwards rush of the boy’s soul, the breathlessness of the effort and of the event.

And just for a moment, Ari the Dreamer wonders whether this is a part in which he is an actor, for he has been able to anticipate the speech of several mourners as if their lines are scripted for a play in which he must deliver both movement and speech. But if this is the case, what role does he have in it? Ari the Dreamer does not associate himself with the fallen boy, nor with the Rabbi, nor with other males he can discern. After a moment, the ridiculous notion fritters out of his mind along with the decaying dream even as young Ari opens his eyes to see the kind face of the Rabbi leaning over him.

Ari Attempts to Understand Morris

“Lemme lift you up,” Bertrand says.

“I can do this on my own.”

“All right…let’s see you.”

Ari pulls himself up until he is sitting, and then slides one leg followed by a second one out of bed. “I just want to sit by the window so I can see the field better.”

“Vas-y, mon vieux,” Bertrand says, giving him permission.

Just then, Dr. Pinchon enters, carrying a box and appearing relaxed. “I am bringing you a machine,” he says, holding it up for him. “It is a voice recorder, a digital one, in which I would like you to record all the dreams you remember. Will you do this?”

Ari shifts in his bed. “Why would the content of my dreams interest you?”

The doctor smiles and lifts his head to reveal a forest of nose hairs populating his nostrils. Impossible for Ari to concentrate on anything else. “The medication you take is designed to magnify, brighten your dream while, at the same time, it penetrates other areas of your brain to slow the disease which is devouring you.”

“Devouring me?” Ari asks nervously.

“Just a figure of speech,” the doctor responds hastily. “Now you push this button once, you speak, and when the dream is recorded, you push the button again. So simple.”

“Ok, I’ll do it, doc, but maybe you can now give me more information as to what is going on with me. Explain the treatment, my coma, how long I’m supposed to stay here…everything.”

The doctor delivers a small laugh. Ari can see his teeth beyond the lips. For some reason, it unnerves him. They are yellowing. Doctors are supposed to have perfect teeth, he supposes. But as soon as he has the thought, he realizes that it is off the beaten track. Why am I trying to find fault with the doctor? he asks himself.

“Do you have numbness in your hands and feet?

Ari considers this. At first, he replies with an affirmative nod, but something else in the back of his mind stops this movement. “Yes,” he says. “I notice my fingers occasionally cramping and once the cramping stops, they become numb for a short period of time.”

The doctor takes notice of this response and writes it on Ari’s file.

“What about unusual physical sensations?”

“I have those,” Ari nods. “I feel as if I am actually present as my dream unfolds, that I am a participant in some strange way that I cannot explain, but even so, I seem to have no power in the dream to change anything.”

“Voila!” The doctor exclaims. “This is what we are most interested in. It is a by-product of the medication you take.”

“Yes, yes,” Ari responds impatiently, “but how long will this experiment take? I want to know when I can return to the States.”

The doctor lowers the file into a sheaf at the foot of the bed, and places both hands on his hips. “M. Bloom, I thought you understood. You must stay with us. End of story!”

“End of story?” Ari asks, feeling his neck redden with irritation. “That’s a load of crap. It’s my personal fucking story after all. Tell me how long you expect me to stay here.”

“Until you shall no longer function and, from that moment, we shall put you into a hospice or, if you wish, the home of your choice.”

Ari gasps. “You mean I could die in this hospital?”

“But M. Bloom,” the doctor exclaims, exasperated with his patient’s naïveté, “surely you are aware of a most elementary principle. We are all going to die. Simply a matter of when and how. Does where matter, truly? You are always you wherever you are, n’est-ce pas? For some reason, Americans see themselves as privileged peoples, that they should die in some distant moment, at the place of their choosing, pain free, perhaps with the extraordinary grace which God does not bestow on any other being. But this is not so. We are all fleas, animals, trees, stars. We all die in our time, but not often of our own planning.”

Surprised by this answer, Ari slips back into his bed. “Yes,” he says, “I suppose I do see myself as one of the chosen, but I have never pretended to believe in God.”

“Irrelevant,” the doctor exclaims. “God is after all but a notion. The brains of the dying convulsing with confusion, the eventual mental decay you experience, that is your reality, and there is no savior God in that experience. No, no,” the doctor continues in a parade of emotion, “you shall have dementia, M. Bloom. I can assure you of this. You will not know where you are, who you are with, or whether you have friends, relatives or pets. So, the notion of God is worth little. Only this treatment may lessen or postpone the assault on your mind. Damn, I think in my emotional frame of mind I have said too much. I ask you to forgive me.”

At this moment, Morris enters the room. Ari sits up and speaks caustically. “The good doctor is explaining how I will die badly, in agony, and that I won’t even have an understanding of my own death when it occurs.”

Morris pulls up a chair and sits. For a moment, he says nothing, his face withdrawn. Then he speaks quietly. “Perhaps this is a good thing. Do you really need to fret over this disease? Need to watch it ravaging you? Isn’t that what makes death horrible for us, the knowledge we possess of its coming and the virulence of its arrival. Like animals, flowers, if you do not have this foreboding, then aren’t you among the blessed?”

Ari takes Morris’ hand in his and presses it. “Good that you have found the bright side to this,” he replies now less insolently. “For a moment, I thought this discussion was going to get serious.”

When Doctor Pinchon leaves, Morris remains behind and rings for a cup of tea.

“Very civilized,” Ari smiles at Morris. A nurse brings them a tray with tea and cookies. “So perhaps you can tell me about me…exactly what happened…half the time I do not even know who I am…I thought I knew…I thought I had a firm grasp on my identity but this is clearly not the case. Probably the fall and the coma. I have had dreams which feel as if they are more grounded in reality than what is actually happening to me in this room, and yet they are only dreams.”

“I have read a description of one of your dreams,” Morris says.” It is not clear to me that they reflect your personal reality.”

“Then what?”

“Remember your profession.”

“Yes, I am a financial planner.”

“Is that your profession?” Morris asks, his brow wrinkling.

“Of course. That is what I have been doing for decades.”

“So then,” Morris continues, “are your dreams reflective of your life?”

Ari sips contemplatively from his cup. “It never occurred to me that these dreams may not be mine, that they may not reflect me at all.”

“They could of course reflect something quite hidden within you.”

Ari snickers. “You are confusing me entirely. I cannot think clearly about this now.”

“Hard stuff to digest,” Morris says somberly. The attendant who brought in the tea appears again bearing another tray laden with additional cookies.

“I am now totally confused,” Ari goes on, once the attendant leaves. “I have always had a strong center to myself. I was always able to help others because I saw clearly their financial dilemmas. But now you imply that I have collapsed the distinctions.”

“It is possible,” Morris replies. “Only you can determine your own truth.”

Ari and Penny

Days elapse. Afternoons, Ari leaves his bed in the company of his nurse, Bertrand, on whom he leans for support if he feels weak. They descend the stairs, hobble down green and white corridors towards the light of the outdoors. By this time, Ari is making considerable progress on his own, but he welcomes Bertrand’s presence in case he suffers a sudden vertigo. In these afternoons, Bertrand often accompanies Ari to a picnic table occupied by Penelope. Clearly, she awaits Ari’s arrival, manifestly relishing his company. And, clearly, this is a woman who needs to talk.”

So, one afternoon, as he slowly makes his way to Penelope’s side, she welcomes him with open arms, stands up in fact from her seat, to guide him firmly onto the bench next to her. She gently places her soft hands on his arms. He is no longer attired in hospital whites, nor in a hospital dressing gown. Instead, Morris has brought him a pair of beige pants, a t-shirt and a grey knit sweater. Afternoons, Bertrand discretely backs off leaving the two to chat. He always returns a few discrete minutes later with tea or coffee.

“I can see,” Penny says, watching Bertrand amble to the Institute, “that he has become quite fond of you.”

Ari smiles. “I appreciate him. Both helpful and docile. The perfect nurse.”

“Yes,” Penny agrees, “he wants what is best for you.” She is wearing a calico dress, and as she speaks to Ari, brings out from her handbag a small mirror to apply rouge to her cheeks.

“True,” Ari replies. “At least I have no reason to doubt him…a wonderful thing these days since I seem to be doubting everything including who and what I am.”

Penny appears solemn and lowers her mirror. “This would happen naturally without any other cause. They couldn’t be more delighted. That is what they want from us here,” she says. “I clearly see what they are after. They would like us to be totally confused so that whatever resolution which is brought about, whatever clarity may come in the future, is due to their work.”

“You are sour,” Ari says, but with a tiny smile

“I have reason to be.”

“So now tell me how you came to be here. You didn’t also collapse in a pool room?”

Penny laughs. “God no! Believe it or not, I have never been in a pool hall in my life. No, I felt unwell one morning with a low-grade fever, and a friend decided to take me to the emergency room. Once they ran some tests, they declared that I had a brain infection. They began to douse me with antibiotics, one after the other. This went on for weeks, but they could not cure the infection. So, they decided that perhaps they had made a mistake. Lord, it took them long enough to understand that even doctors can be fallible. Then they thought it could be a cousin to the mad cow disease. Only this institute, this clinic, they claimed, had any treatment. So, I flew over. First to Paris and then by helicopter here.”

“And the prognosis?”

Penny smiles, stops speaking for a moment, her lips moistening as she rubs them together. “Death,” she sighs quietly. Softly tapping her feet as if to rebel against the notion. They told me I should die from this disease and that perhaps I had less than eighteen months to live. But I don’t believe them. I am feeling well now. I had dizziness, but it is gone. I even had aches in my belly which have subsided. Whatever I had has chirped away,” she adds, her hands imitating the flight of a bird on the wing.

“So, then what are you doing here?”

“They tell me that sooner or later I will relapse, and then the effects will be much worse if I do not continue the treatment. I am willing to remain for a while to see what happens. I have, sadly, nothing else to do,” she adds with a slight grin.

In her imagination, she perceives herself in time shrinking into a virtual fetus, her face devolving into a million wrinkles without a single conscious thought. Shuddering, she bucks up with the notion that surely none of this could possibly happen to her…or to Ari She looks over at him, at such a pale face, the yellow hair silvering at the corners, the slight bald spot at the back of his head, his stooped shoulders, his face expressionless in this moment save for the lips trembling together as if they were constantly blockading a word.”

“Look,” he says at last, pointing to the walkway that leads to the front gate, “all we ever need to do is to get up and walk out of the front door. We can stroll out anytime we wish,” he adds with a triumphant smile.

Penny laughs. “You truly are ignorant sometimes,” she says disparagingly. Now she pulls up on the sleeve of her dress and points to a scar. “What do you think this is?”

“I have no idea,” Ari says, examining it closely.

“I bet you have one as well.”

“I bet I do not,” he replies laughing.

“Let’s see your right arm then,” she says. Presenting his arm, Ari smiles at Penny who now with a light touch of her fingertips is running up and down his arm.

“Here,” she exclaims.” Here it is! Pointing to a small scar on Ari’s upper arm.”

Scoffing, Ari replies: ”This is nothing. A scratch. A bruise from an encounter with the bed railing.”

“Yes,” she answers confidently, “exactly as I said, the same GPS microchip that I have.”

“What in hell are you raving about?”

“We both have it. Everyone has it. They implant the damn thing into everyone... They don’t need to lock rooms or fence in the grounds because if we leave the premises, provided we are physically able to do so, they can track us down like the dogs we are.”

“You mean they have implanted us with the same sort of chip used to track dogs?

“Ruff, ruff,” Penny barks. For a moment, she remains silent. “We can check out but never leave….Hotel California. Yes, that is the correct tune. To be truly free, we would need to carve out these chips and destroy them.”

Now the pair remain mute, sipping from their coffee and nibbling cookies. At this moment, a man nearing sixty years old with glasses comes to the picnic table and wedges his way between them.

“Je suis Nicholas Deslauriers,” he begins, and then adds several sentences in rapid French. Ari, to his amazement, understands everything this man is saying to him in a tongue he swears he has never studied. He tells this man in a flawless French that Penny only has a rudimentary knowledge of the language, but could grasp the essentials.”

“True, my French is somewhat limited,” she adds.

“Yet,” retorts M. Deslauriers in French, “why don’t you tell me what you have been discussing? Perhaps I may add to your conversation.”

Penny thinks this a cheeky intrusion. “C’est une conversation intime.”

“But this is the conversation I prefer,” Deslauriers beams, rubbing his hands together.

“But it is a conversation between deux personnes.”

“Let him talk,” Ari says. He turns to the man and tells him that they are discussing finances.

“Les finances,” Penny emphasizes.

“Aaah, also one of my favorite subjects,” Deslauriers says, grinning widely.

Just then Bertrand arrives and seizes Deslauriers by the arm lifting him from the picnic table. He scolds him, tells him that he needs more discretion and restraint to allow two people in intimate conversation to speak without interference.

“Ah,” replies Deslauriers as he is leaving with Bertrand, “I perhaps have overstepped my bounds I did not know that I was between two animals in heat. I offer you apologies,” he shouts, blowing them kisses as Bertrand guides him towards the Institute.

At once, Penny and Ari return to their conversation. “Nothing prevents us from walking through those gates and taking a longer walk down the road, perhaps to the center of town in Nancy,” Penny says.

“Nothing prevents it,” Ari replies,” until they have discovered that we have left the premises. I’m sure there must be some electronic device that emits a signal if we leave the grounds, just as dogs who blunder through an invisible fence suffer a shock. And they don’t even give us a bone. But,” Ari muses, “why should we leave? Where would we go? Is there a better place to die slowly?”

“Of course, silly,” Penny smiles. “We should be on a cruise around the world or perhaps fighting terrorism in Africa. What the crap are we doing in this place? We seem to be physically able, but perhaps not mentally courageous.”

“Yes,” Ari intones enthusiastically, “what are we doing here?”

“Guinea pigs,” Penny answers. “They use us for their own advancement. Still, I want to have some fun before the reaper reaps.”

“Fun!” Ari repeats as if he has never heard the word. He struggles to remember when last he had fun.

“Yes, it’s when you carry on smiling and laughing and feeling okay.”

“I may have forgotten,” Ari mulls.

“Well then, let’s do something about it,” Penny replies grinning. “After lights out tonight, come to my room.”

“Now how would I do that?” Ari asks haltingly.

Penny scowls. “You are exasperating. You open your door, find my room and without knocking, enter. I’ll leave the door unlocked. My room is in the same corridor as yours, but at the other end of the women’s section, next to the last room on the left.”

“And what will we do there in the middle of the night?”

She looks at him with a mixture of frustration and fondness. “You do take the cake,” she says. ”Don’t you want to huddle or cuddle…or make love?”

Now Ari is taken aback. This is one subject that has not arisen in his time at the Institute. Nor could he recall when last he has made love with a woman. He tries to picture it but the image fades as quickly as it arises.

“I haven’t made love in quite a while,” he says quietly unprepared for what be Penny’s reaction.

“Never too late,” Penny whispers to him.

But Ari thinks it is in fact too late for him. If I have not considered making love, it must be because I have no interest in it. “I don’t think it is something I want to do,” he says, but says it with his eyes turned down. “I am sorry.”

“Come over anyway,” Penny replies, taking his hands in hers. “My room is me. It is intimate. Unlike this park, it belongs to me. We can be lovers even if we do not make love.”

“How do you do that?” A soft wind rises so that Ari puts his hands over his ears.

She laughs. “We will commune with one another. Just you and I.”

So that night, after dinner, after the doctor has swung by for late rounds, after Ari’s pulse and temperature have been assessed, after a handful of meds have been downed, there is only Morris to boot out. Worried about the action he is to take, yet enthralled by the notion that he is breaking an Institute rule, Ari stalls, decides to use the time to ask Morris a question he has been itching to ask.

“So why are you here?” He asks Morris.

“As a support for you,” Morris replies, but gazes away as he says so.

“You were good enough to escort me here to the Institute,” Ari says, ”and you have been here with me for weeks. Surely there must be more interesting things for you to do in life than this.”

Morris smiles. “In fact, he replies, I knew this subject would come up eventually.” He continues to speak rapidly in a rehearsed tone. “I am being paid by the Pharynx Corporation to be here with you, to lend you support, and to see how well its drug works on you.”

Ari is not pleased. “You never told me this, yet we have been together for some time.”

“I have been waiting for the right moment.”

“Yes,” Ari says with a labored tone, “yes…I want to know how this corporation made contact with you. All of this is unusual, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Of course,” Morris concedes. “I was with you in the hospital after your collapse and once you had lapsed into a coma. Maddie was there with me from time to time. She said she wished she could remain with you, but once you wakened, you might not want to see her.”

“Yes, right,” Ari responds, yet unsure who Maddie is and why he feels nothing for this person.

“Once the hospital had determined the nature of your disease and all agreed to send you to a more advanced facility, the Pharynx Corporation was informed. Apparently, they have asked all hospitals to report any mad cow disease infection. They offered to pay for you to fly to Nancy as well as any other expenses related to your treatment. Secondly, because they have a vested interest in the progress and outcome of the trials in Nancy, they looked for someone to accompany you, to report to them how you were doing. To stay with you, to follow your day- to- day experiences. I agreed to do so for a small sum.”

Ari is trying to stay calm. “So, your visit here is not entirely altruistic.”

Morris remains glum for a moment. “Well, I would have been happy to do it for you, chum, if I had the monies to carry it off, which I don’t. I had to accept their offer if I was to stay.”

“And if you were to earn a salary.”

“True,” Morris concedes. “I wish this conversation did not make me appear self-serving.”

Ari pauses, and then agrees. “Yes.

“But I accepted the offer finally. I turned my life inside out. Only to assist you through the first months of the treatment,” Morris continues, his face returning to his original pallor.

“I’m weary of this talk,” Ari retorts, not quite convinced by his friend’s arguments. “Perhaps we can continue it some other time.” Eager to dispose of Morris, he now closes his eyes and pretends to fall asleep.

“Don’t forget to record your dream,” Morris whispers as he tiptoes out.

Two hours pass by. Waiting. Ari waits some more. Hallways are creaking with occasional footsteps. Waiting anxiously. Finally, the hallways remain silent and Ari arises from his bed. He decides to retain his pajamas. He’ll look like a sleep-walker if anyone spots him. He opens the door to the corridor quietly. He treads slowly down the corridor lit only by emergency foot lights. He arrives at Penny’s door. Looks around. In an instant, he has opened it, slides inside and closes the door behind him. Breathing heavily. Can’t see anything in the blackness of the room. Smells the faint odor of flowers without identifying it.

And then a little voice calling to him. “No,” she admonishes. “Don’t turn on lights. It’s a beacon to others.”

He moves towards her voice. Touches the bed. The railings have been collapsed down.

“Don’t stop,” she whispers. “You’re almost there.”

“I’m getting into the bed,” Ari whispers back.

“Where else would you go, my dear friend?” she asks.

“True, where else?” he repeats. He remains unsure of himself. He wonders what the fuck he is doing there. Shuffles around under the top sheet and then turns to one side. “I’m tired,” he offers.

“Not the most romantic words in the history of mankind,” Penny scolds softly. “Don’t you even want to try?”

“No,” Ari says honestly.” I really have no interest in sex.”

“Pity,” Penny replies, “but perhaps you could make me feel good.”

Ari turns slowly towards her. Her breathing labors! “How would I do that?”

She scoffs. “You’re a man of 70 years and you don’t know how to make a woman feel good in bed?”

She gives off a soft perfume. “Enlighten me,” he says.

With that, she takes his hand and places it between her legs. “Yes,” she says after a moment,” that’s the spot. Just rub right there.”

He does as he is told. Underneath his fingers, he feels a funny waxy substance amidst the pliable flesh which his fingers have entered.

“The clitoris,” she calls out, desperately, almost comically.

“Yes,” he says, curiously almost to himself. “Yes, I remember. It is as if a voice from the past has finally focused his attention on the female. He is harkening back to it. Can’t quite place it”, he muses, and yet it is a force in his unconscious edging into awareness.

After a time, Penny emits a low moan and closes her legs over Ari’s fingers. Then he understands that it is finished, that Penny is feeling good, and that he has done a proper job. Her lips are at his neck now embracing the early evening stubble, slightly wet. He does not know how to react. He stays silent.

“Thank you,” she whispers in his ear, now kissing his cheek. They fall asleep entwined.

Is He Really Ari Bloom?

A few days later, Ari opens his eyes to find Dr. Pinchon at his bedside. “You haven’t been recording your dreams,” he scolds Ari.

“I haven’t had any these past nights.”

“Hmmm,” muses the doctor, “perhaps we need to amplify the dosage.”

“Excuse me,” Ari retorts, taking offense at the tone of the remark, “but is this treatment for my benefit or yours?”

“Why would you say such a thing?” Pinchon complains, lifting his eyes.

“You talk as if dreaming is part of the cure,” “Ari says, once he has calmed himself, “but what about recovery? What about health?”

Dr. Pinchon smiles through small, yellowing teeth. “You misunderstand, he replies. It is always about good health, but your dreams are part of the process that assist in your good health. They stimulate the brain, the organ which is most affected by the disease. You have misunderstood because you do not consider your brain part of the process.”

“I suppose so,” Ari replies haltingly, still unconvinced.

“I see that you are becoming friendlier each day with Penelope Fisher,” the doctor says, now walking to the window. “There! I see her right now in the park, probably awaiting you.”

“We are friends,” Ari says. “Is there something wrong with this?”

“Pas du tout,” the doctor answers. He blows his nose. “You know, I would suggest that the two of you, since you are in good spirits these days, take a day trip to the center of Nancy. You could eat at a local restaurant which, I assure you, will be much more satisfying than our kitchen. Spend some time in the park they call the Pepiniere, and take a walk around the celebrated Place Stanislaus. It will bolster your morale.”

“I would like that,” Ari says, “and I believe Penny would as well.”

“Then I will arrange for Bertrand to drive you into town tomorrow.”

In the morning, Ari wakes up trembling. He realizes that since the verdict of his impending demise, he has been afraid to crawl out of his deathbed shell, watching as each day advances the arrow of time towards his end. This is a direction, he knows, which never turns, and it causes him to fear living. Dressing in familiar beige pants, white t-shirt and sweater, determined to overcome his reluctance, he walks downstairs with a spring in his step trusting that this day might be a first day of liberation, not a day given over to worry about his health, a day focused on actual living.

Penny, too, is excited. The notion of actually leaving the premises invigorates her senses. The two walk hand in hand at the large cement gate with the portico on which is engraved the name of the Institute in burnished copper. After a while, Bertrand arrives in a small, baby blue Porsche. They squeeze into the back seat contentedly as Bertrand whisks them the three miles into town. At the Place Stanislaus, he parks.

As soon as she exits the car, Penny notices a young girl whom she has seen several times before at the Institute. “Who is that girl?” she asks Bertrand.

“Mlle Loyau, Stephanie Loyau”, he says.

“Also at the Institute?”

“Yes,” Bertrand answers, “but she does not have the cow malady. She has some genetic malfunction which obliges her to walk”.

Penny and Ari both laugh at this. “What do you mean?”

For an instant, Bertrand laughs with them “Each morning,” he begins, “Stephanie takes her breakfast at the Institute around 7, and no later than 8, rain or sun, she begins her journey. She leaves the premises and goes into town, around town, into the suburbs, and then back to the Institute. She walks from 8 until 7 in the evening, normally without stopping to eat or to go to the bathroom. She has a water bottle with her which she ordinarily brings back full, walks at a steady pace, saying nothing to anyone, and only speaks at dinner when, she claims, she is ravenous.”

They watch the girl cross the square, noticing that with each step her left knee kicks out wide at an angle. The wonder of such an awkward movement astonishes them.

“Quite amazing.”

“Yes, the doctors are sequencing her DNA to see if the gene exists or fails to exist which might describe a walking obsession. So then,” he adds, “this is where I will pick you up, say around three this afternoon?”

“How about four?” Penny asks.

“If you wish. I have instructions to return you before dinner.”

“Four then,” Ari chimes in, “and give me a cigarette, please.”

Reaching into his pocket for a Gauloise, Bertrand also finds his lighter. “I’m getting used to black tobacco,” Ari says.

“No,” Penny says, refusing a cigarette from Bertrand, “I have never smoked.”

“Nor have I,” Ari reflects, ”but I thought I would like to try it before I die.”

“Yes,” Bertrand adds, “the worst thing that can happen if you smoke is that it will kill you.”

With that, the three of them look at each other and burst out laughing.

Now arm in arm, the pair stride about the Place Stanislaus, the 18th century square named in honor of the King of Poland who, at one time, was also Duke of Lorraine and, thus of Nancy. He created the space now occupied by an enormous city hall, the Hotel de Ville, a museum of Beaux-Arts, the Grand Hotel and several cafes. Next to the Grand, there is a path that leads to the city park, the Pepiniere. Some forty acres in diameter containing among other things a small zoo. They walk together on dirt paths around the park, feeding the deer, observing the monkeys, marveling at the beauty of the spry, dazzling peacocks that cross their path.

They do not notice other people strolling about the park. Not until two of them, two rather oversized individuals dressed in Hawaiian shirts and cargo shorts, stop before them.

“I told you so,” the balding man says excitedly to the woman in English. “It is him!”

“You’re right as rain, Cory,” the woman replies.

“Excuse me,” Ari says. “You are Americans?”

“We are. From Ohio. Cleveland, Ohio.”

“Here on holidays?”

“Yes, we read in the guidebook about the square and the park.”

“It is a beautiful place,” Penny says.

“And you are the actor,” Cory says, pointing at Ari’s chest.” I’ve watched you for years. Watched you on TV for years, haven’t we? Alice, what network is it on? Fox?”

“I recall it is,” Alice replies.

“You have seen me before?” Ari replies incredulously.

“Many times,” Cory repeats. “On TV. On the series where you star in Babylon Revisited. Our favorite soap. Every afternoon at two p.m.”

“But,” Ari protests, “you have made a mistake. I’m not an actor. I’m a financial planner. It is what I have done all my life. “

Alice feigns not hearing this. “You’ve been on that series for how many years? Twenty? More than fifteen? Longer? Yes, of course, you are a financial planner.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“He doesn’t remember,” Alice, Cory laughs. “We thought we were the only ones who didn’t remember things.” Laughing, he reaches over to award his wife a peck on the cheek.

“To refresh his memory,” Penny intervenes calmly,” perhaps you could tell us about a scene or two you saw him in?”

“Sure,” Cory says. “We were just watching re-runs of it on Netflix a few weeks ago. The series starts with you as a young whippersnapper. After the first episode. There is a Jewish boy walking with Ari who dives into a pond and dies. You play a Yid too. Anyway, there’s a funeral service where you are eulogizing and suddenly you feel ill and you collapse.”

At this moment, Ari’s knees begin to buckle. He turns to see that he is near a bench. Edging to it, he sits heavily.

“I remember this very well,” Ari says.

Penny looks up confused. “You do?”

“But not as I acted it, but as I remembered it, as I dreamed about it, as part of my life.”

“A real kidder, Alice ain’t he? Part of his life. No…this is part of the role you had…of course you didn’t play the role yourself. You woulda been too old for that. Some kid played your part, some kid who looked like you woulda looked at his age. But later, when you turn into the financier, the Wall Street guy, that’s when you play yourself. Can’t get over meeting you not in Hollywood, not in New York, but here in France in a kinda small town like Nancy.” He pronounces the town’s name as if it were a girl’s name.

“Could you give us your autograph?” Alice asks, pulling out a pad from her purse and thrusting it at Ari.

“Sure,” he says somewhat unsteadily, still sitting. He signs his name Ari Bloom.

“What a kidder,” Cory laughs. “Write your real name, not the name of the role you play.”

“Look,” Ari retorts, flushing, “I’ve been under a lot of stress lately.”

“Give the man a little room,” Penny adds quickly.

“No offense meant. Gee, it’s swell meeting you.”

“Not offense taken,” Ari replies, gets up and shakes hands with each of them.

“Sure, Mr. Scudery. I understand. Can’t wait to tell everybody back home how we met.” Alice now tugs at Cory’s shirt to pull him away. Cory leaves backing up with a shit eating grin on his face. Penny watches them toddling away turning several times to gaze back at Ari and wave. Ari sits down on a curb with his face in his hands. “What the hell is going on?” His heart is pounding, his shirt moist from sweat dripping from his neck. I feel sick. I really feel uprooted. My name is Scudery? Not Bloom? My dreams are not about my life but about a role I have been playing for decades? This cannot be true. It’s too much for me to bear, to comprehend.”

For the remainder of the afternoon, having ducked into a café, they order drinks, then soup, a cod luncheon, and wait for Bertrand to pick them up.

“Morris will know about this,” Ari says after a long period of silence. “He knows who I am. I’ll talk to him so he can straighten me out.”

Morris and Ari Have It Out

That night, as is his wont, Morris enters Ari’s room, pulls up a chair and sits next to the bed. He is in seemingly good spirits. His round face is less wan, rosier this evening.

“I’m glad you came tonight,” Ari says.

“I heard you had an outing today.”

“Yes, to town.”

“And how did you enjoy it?”

“Fine. Fine,” Ari says excitedly. “Look, Morris, let’s skip the small talk and get on to something more significant. We met two Americans in the park today who claimed they recognized me. They were certain of it. They said I was an actor. Not some guy named Ari Bloom, but that the role of Ari Bloom was mine and that I had played it for two decades. This totally confused me, but they cited chapter and verse. They related episodes of my young life as Ari which they had seen on TV and which paralleled my dreams. This is all so freaky. I needed independent verification. More than that, I need to explore who I am. And that’s why I turn to you for help. I‘m clear that since we have been here, you have been calling me Ari, Ari Bloom.”

Morris shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “Who do you think you are?” he asks.

Enraged, Ari sits up and grabs at Morris’ lapel. “Stop dancing around this. Tell me what you know.”

“All right,” Morris replies. I suppose you are ready for the truth now.” He hesitates for a moment before taking a deep breath. “You were born Paul Scudery.”

A long breath issues from Ari, his eyes reflecting no recognition of the name. After a moment’s hesitation, the light disappears from his eyes. “What are we talking about anyway?”

“You asked me about your identity.”

Ari laughs nervously. “My identity? I know exactly who I am.”

“Yes, you are Paul Scudery.” Morris edges closer as Ari is experiencing a moment of mental degradation.

“What are we talking about?” Ari says, his eyes suddenly wet with fear, rage, and impotence.

Morris observes that Ari is in fact trembling. “Calm down. Are you sure you want to hear this?”

“Absolutely.” Ari sits up straight.

“Let’s start with the mechanical. Your paychecks from work have always been made out to Paul Scudery. Paychecks which were drawn to your name for acting on Babylon Revisited. Paychecks for more than a twenty-year period as I understand it. Once you were offered the role of Ari, you became, let’s say, comfortable in that role. Fit you like a glove. Fit the idea of whom you wanted to be. You liked Ari Bloom’s life, his spirit, his soul, his intelligence, above all his kindness, generosity of spirit better than the personality of Paul Scudery. That is to say that the personality of Paul Scudery has not always been congruent with the highest ideals of friendship, generosity, or kindness. Over time, maybe starting with your collapse, maybe even earlier, you accepted this other identity the way some transgender women become men or men become women. The role of Ari, his character, how he appears to others, the way he spoke, his savoir faire, his background, the fact that he was admired and even loved by some, even his background, suited you. True, he didn’t always live up to the highest ideals, and yet you seemed to relate to him. You took on this role in real life and now you have refused to answer to the name of Paul Scudery. But who can blame you?” Morris concludes.

“But this is astounding,” Ari replies. “How is this possible? I have no knowledge, no memory of this.”

Morris sits back now, his thin lips hardly issuing words loud enough for Ari to hear. “Your disease or perhaps your fall has affected your memory, I suppose. It seems to have totally eliminated a personality you found offensive. I mean Paul Scudery, the identity you were all too glad to trade in for a new life.”

“But who is this Paul Scudery?”

“An actor who grew up in an atmosphere of poverty and disillusion. His father worked as a busboy in a New York hotel restaurant, but could not support his family. His mother, frustrated after years of dealing with a feckless husband, divorced him, Penniless, she took you with her into shelters. You lived from hand to mouth for several years.”

“In New York?”

“Yes.”

“And my mother now?”

“Dead for many years. Presumably your father is also dead, but if not, he would be quite an old man.”

“So, what happened to me?”

“This is what I’ve been able to piece together. You went to public schools as a young man. One of your teachers saw promise in you after seeing you in several theatre skits, and started you out in the direction of your eventual calling. You were always an actor, you were always meant to be an actor, if for no reason that it enabled you to be someone other than the real life you led. How little you cared to recall your past, especially the early years, how you worked tirelessly to obliterate your memories, and how easily you were able to transpose your life into that of Ari Bloom.”

Ari got out of his bed, walked over to the window and closed the blinds. Agitated, he fidgeted at the window for a moment. “I’m an old man with a terminal disease. Tell me that is also a lie.”

“I wish I could.”

Ari returned to his bed and sat on a corner. “I have no real idea as to who I am.”

“You are beginning to learn about yourself through your dreams.”

“Yet my dreams reflect my roles. Not me.”

“Yes, because that is who you want to be, Ari Bloom. Maybe that is who you truly are.”

“Will I ever dream about my life as Paul Scudery? What about that poor benighted soul? How will I find out about that life? I do want to learn about my hidden life as well. If for no other reason than to understand what I was rejecting.”

“The meds you take have started you in that direction,” Morris avers. “As I understand it, you will continue to dream, dreams which will become more and more real and vivid. This happens because new memory cells are formed in the treatment you are receiving. Perhaps you will also incorporate Paul Scudery into your dreamlife.”

From the nightstand, Ari lifts a mirror to his face. “Who am I? Ari Bloom, the financier, or Paul Scudery, the actor?”

Morris hesitates. “Only you can answer that for yourself. But why must it be one or the other? Think! You have the opportunity to live two lives….why would you reject that possibility? Yes, you could well be both Paul Scudery and also Ari Bloom.”

“Ring for the nurse,” Ari says.

“Something wrong?”

“I need a tranquilizer,” Ari says, settling back into his bed. “Maybe more than one.”

Penny and Morris Have Words

Huddled together against the stiff breeze striking them from the east with full forcre, they sit bundled, scarfs curled about their necks. Penny wears woolen earmuffs. They are holding hands waiting for Bertrand to comfort them with hot tea.

“Things have happened,” Penny remarks, “since we saw one another last.”

“Yes, they have,” assents Ari.

“You as well?”

Ari nods.

“Then maybe you better start.”

“Ok,” Ari says, and proceeds to recount the substance of the conversation with Morris the night before.

Rubbing her hands together for warmth, Penny shakes her head. “Do you believe him?” She asks.

Astonished, Ari smiles. “What’s to disbelieve? Do you remember the couple in the Pepiniere?”

“Of course.”

“So, Morris’s story is a corroboration of this.”

“Still, I don’t fully trust the man,” Penny exclaims.

“Explain yourself. Do you truly have a reason to mistrust him? If his claim is true, then I have no idea of who I am.”

“You are the man sitting before me, chilled to the bone, waiting for tea,” she replies, smiling. “Whatever your name, I believe you are a good man, and probably a very good business man.”

“Thank you,” Ari says. “I think!” In some ways he is relieved. He is who he is, just as Penny suggests. He doesn’t think differently as a result of yesterday’s conversation, although there are momentary upsets, he acknowledges, a queasy feeling at the pit of his stomach.

“Who is this Paul Scudery anyway?” Penny goes on. “Don’t we need to find out about him so you’ll rest easy? I already know you well enough to suspect that you’ll never have a good night’s rest until you get more information.”

“True enough,” Ari replies. “And already, there may be some clues as to who exactly we are talking about. After Morris left, I took a couple of Xanax, fell asleep, a really deep sleep. Sometime during the night, I awakened with a start. I had a dream I remembered, but this time not about Ari, but about Paul Scudery. And I am almost certain, it is a dream that reflects something which actually happened in my life. Not my life,” he goes on feebly, his voice quaking, “but Paul’s life.”

“Tell me about it,” Penny says, just as a very bundled-up Bertrand arrives with a platter. Steam is issuing from the teapot as he begins to pour.

“It is freezing here,” Bertrand says to them. “You cannot be out here long without catching a cold.”

“A few minutes longer,” Penny says to Bertrand, squeezing his arm. Scowling only slightly, Bertrand leaves for the Institute, struggling against the wind.

“Here is the dream,” Ari says. “I am at a train station in Boston. I believe it is Boston. I am awaiting a train to take me to Atlanta. But I am not alone. There is a young boy about my age with me. We are some fourteen years old. The boy’s name is Harry, Harry Slater. I am accompanying Harry to New York, and after I drop off Harry, I am to go on to Atlanta. At first, I do not understand who this Harry is and why he is with me, but as we board the train, Harry turns to me and says: ‘Paul, I’ll help you with the luggage’. I laugh at this despite Harry’s serious demeanor because I can tell that Harry probably cannot lift any of the suitcases. Despite his age, he is obese, flabby... He looks as if he were constituted of jello and if I touch him he would roll away. Obese, his fat deposits slip and slide as he moves. I can see the puddles under his shirt. So, I tell him his help isn’t needed, that I alone will lift the luggage into the rack above. And in fact, I do so. The train now is filling with passengers. We are sitting in the last pair of seats in the back of the wagon. Harry asks me for something to eat. I have brought two sandwiches with me, but I am certain Harry will be hungry again in an hour or so and I refuse to give one to him.”

So, Harry asks me: what kind of sandwich is it?”

“Both ham sandwiches,” I reply. “One has got mustard, the other butter, maybe margarine.”

“Paul,” he prays beseechingly, “please…”

I am not bothered by the fact that he calls me Paul. In this dream, I actually respond to this name. The scene is altogether comfortable, and now the train begins to shuffle out of the station. Slowly, the people outside waving are left behind as it picks up steam. After a time, I am sitting dreaming, dozing. Dreaming of being in Atlanta already without the burden sitting next to me. So, strangely, I am living a dream within a dream. But after the conductor has come by and taken tickets, after a lady across the aisle asks whether she can borrow a magazine in Harry’s possession, something bizarre takes place. Standing to hand her the magazine, Time Magazine to be exact, Harry falls straight down between the rows of seats onto the carpet and collapses in a fit. Twitching and churning on the aisle between rows, he is foaming at the mouth. And now I can hear someone shouting at me: ‘Grab his tongue’. I reach inside his mouth. Harry bites me on the knuckles drawing blood. ‘Grab his tongue’, the voice commands again, so I take my other hand and reach for Harry’s moist and slippery tongue, finally find it, grasp it and hold onto it until, after a moment, the twitching subsides, Harry’s eyes which were once lifted up into his skull have now descended back into their earthly orbit, and he lies still. “You can let go of the tongue now”, the voice says.

I hate Harry. I hate the fact that I agreed to accompany him to New York on my way home. It was the schoolmaster who asked me to do this. Not really asking. Commanding, because if I did not, he threatened me. I had no choice. The schoolmaster shouted at me that I was on full scholarship and he could cut that off at any moment returning me to the trash heap from whence I had sprung, or so he claimed. Of course, I had to comply. But with hesitation and contempt. I had seen Harry in the yard mumbling to himself. The kid had no friends. He didn’t even have enemies ’cause everyone left him alone. No one wanted to be near him or, God forbid, touch him. But in this moment, I had his slippery tongue in my hand for a full minute or more and the feeling it produced was so shivery that it rattled me.

Next to me, Harry came to quickly looking unfazed by his fit. So then, I dug into my knapsack and brought out the sandwich with the margarine which he ate quickly. I followed that one with the ham on mustard. As you can imagine, I had lost my appetite. I watched him down the food in a flash as if the sandwiches were soluble and suddenly visualized the bread and ham and mustard turning instantly into the ooze, his flesh. I shivered again with disgust.

I was supposed to see him home in NY and take the later train on to Atlanta. We got off the train together. I brought down his suitcase and, at the curb by a taxi stand outside the station, set it down and turned to him and said: “Harry, go home.”

“I don’t know where home is exactly,” Harry said giving me one of his goofy looks. “Somewhere on Madison Avenue.”

I couldn’t take being with the blob for another minute. I decided he had forgotten where his home was because he wanted me to take him there. “Not my problem,” I replied. With that, I returned into the station. From the corner of my eye, I could see him standing there helplessly, his two arms flailing up and down as if he had no idea what to do.

“So, you did nothing to help him?” Penny asked. “You simply left him there?

“Yes, that is so,” Ari says. “But it wasn’t me who did this. It was Paul. If it had been left up to me,” Ari continues, “I would have helped get him into a cab.”

“Paul is a cold fish,” Penny concludes.

“Maybe he is at that,” Ari concedes wondering about it. “But what does this say about me?”

But now Penny herself is shivering and suggests that they retreat to her room to warm up and finish their conversation. They would have a half-hour before the nurses and, occasionally, the doctor stops for rounds with meds and their peculiar French brand of stilted humor. So, they return to the front entrance. And upon opening the front door, experience the warm air rushing towards them, enveloping them. Penny is now smiling, breathing hard, puffs of air exhaling. They walk down the corridor to the women’s section, and then to her room. Her body quivering with the cold, she sits down trembling.

In a corner of the room, there is a mahogany handkerchief table with marquetry inlays Penny says she bought upon arrival to the Institute. She uses it for writing, having tea, playing cards (she is a devotee of solitaire), and the like. There are three chairs that encircle it. They sit on either side of it.

“What do you think about my dream?” Ari asks.

“It’s the first indication we have that being Paul isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,” she responds.

“If the dream reflects the truth.”

“Don’t you think it true? An accurate depiction of Paul?” She asks clearly expecting an affirmative answer.

“Yes,” he says, appeasing her. ”I do.”

“Then,” Penny says firmly, ”it must be true. But, she cautions, it’s only a beginning. There must be a great deal more to learn about Paul.”

“The notion that I am Paul Scudery and that I always have been drives me crazy. It’s repugnant. He’s repugnant! I need to process all of this and that will take time. But now, tell me what has happened to you.”

“Well yes,” Penny replies, setting a teapot on the stove. Last night, after I went to bed, I left the door unlocked as usual. I always hope you might come and visit. It’s chilly at night, and I like it when you keep me warm. I also like it when you do rude things to me, but even without a shag, keeping me warm is a perfectly good start. Anyway, as I was falling asleep, I heard a noise in the corridor, the sound of footsteps followed by what I thought was my door handle turning. I got up and rushed to the door thinking this must be you, but as I opened it, to my surprise, it was Morris standing there with a sheepish grin. I knew I had caught him doing something he did not want anyone to know about, but exactly what his transgression was I could not tell you. “Can I help you?” I asked Morris.

He reddened perceptibly. “Yes, you can,” he blustered. “We need to have a chat, just the two of us.”

For some reason, this did not surprise me. I bade him enter. We sat around this table. I started to boil him a cup of coffee, instant coffee. I thought he looked exceptionally serious. Wondering what was on his mind, I sat down quickly with a cup in hand and offered it to him.

“You’re not having one?” he asked suspiciously, I thought.

“Too late for me. I couldn’t sleep with the caffeine”.

“Nothing keeps me awake when I am tired.” I noticed he has grey slate eyes which move constantly from one object to the next. A lot like a rodent. It unnerved me. “What’s on your mind?”

“You and Ari,” he said. He cupped the drink with both hands. “In fact, your influence on Ari to be exact.”

“How do you mean?” I asked.

“Look, I’ll be direct,” Morris answered, laying down his cup. “Ari is going to die, probably within three to six months. He doesn’t know this. He believes he will last a year. In some ways he is an innocent. He is able to avoid thoughts of his own demise or, at least, he appears not to dwell on it. That is quite unusual for someone with this disease.”

“I don’t agree that he hasn’t considered his end,” I said. “We share the same disease,” I continued abruptly. I hoped to remind him that we were all in the same boat.

He looked up sadly, I thought. “Yes, you do, but his is quite a bit more advanced than yours. You are still able to get up and go for an entire afternoon. Ari is about to slow down significantly, and here is what I fear: you are going to wear him down to shreds.”

“Even if this is true which I can’t believe, what is it to you?”

“I am his friend,” Morris said looking me straight in the eye. It was such a calculated look that I knew I had him. I knew he was concealing something.”

“I heard it as well,” I replied aggressively.

“So, Ari has talked to you about my arrangement with the drug company?”

“Yes, he has. We discuss everything.”

“I see,” Morris said, getting up, then turned and in a much louder voice continued. “What are you offering him? Hope for a relationship? Hope for a better turn to good health? You are going to force him to do things no longer in his power.”

“And this disturbs you?” I asked. “Or does it disturb the company you work for?”

He hesitated. “I have tried in every respect to be his friend. I’ve tried to lessen his burden.”

Then I decided to probe him about the medication, figuring he might have inside information. “What about the super therapies of the Institute? Aren’t they miracle compounds? You talk as if Ari were doomed whatever they do.”

“The truth is that, for the time being, the therapies can extend life only a little. They can, however, heighten one’s experiences.” Now Morris asked for and received a large glass of scotch. As he began to drink, he seemed more himself.”

“How do you mean?”

He sat down again more at peace with his surroundings. He spoke in a normal rhythm.” Ari has dreams that take place, each of them, over an extended period of time. For example, his dream about Gordon, his schoolmate. Think about the duration of this dream.”

“What about it?” I asked.

“The event itself must have taken place for well over an hour even though the dream describing it took but a few moments. The medication will extend Ari’s dream in such a fashion that he may, through the dream itself, live for an extended period of time.”

“And be aware of these changes?”

“Unclear, perhaps, but he will be there, alive in a vibrant way, as vibrant as any experience he has had in his life.”

Now Penny looks up at Ari. “Why, on the one hand, was he offering hope with regards to extending your dream life while, on the other, almost threatening me with regards to my influence over you?”

“I don’t know,” Ari replies. “But I had not thought about the duration of my dreams. They seemed to flow naturally from point A to point Z. It is true, as I think about them, that they did seem to extend in time. For example, Paul and Harry’s train ride required more than four hours, hours which I relived for the most part. Perhaps not the most pleasant of hours, yet the dream itself probably didn’t last more than a few minutes. And yet, in the most peculiar way, the experience to me felt as if I had undergone the entire train trip of four hours.”

Penny seemed confused by this. She got up and opened the window to let in the air. Then she turned: “What about Morris suggesting that you have but a few months left to live?”

Ari laughs. “I have no control over this. I have to give God my death because I owe it to him, and he can collect me whenever he wants.”

“Before we ship it over to him through the overnight mail, let’s see if we can’t extend your actual life.”

“Now how would I do that?”

“I don’t know,” Penny avers, “at least not yet. I’m not convinced that this Institute is the best place for either of us to live out our time. I’m certainly not trusting that Morris is your friend. We need to remain wary of that man. There is something not right on the surface there. And also remain wary of the doctor and his minions.”

Ari smiles. ”Kind of paranoid, aren’t you?”

“Realistic, pragmatic,” she responds, smiling back, and nudging him gently in the ribs.

Timing Ari’s Dreams

This day the patients are undergoing tests. Prodded, poked, brain scanned, blood drained, spines examined, tapped and massaged, anesthetic applied and injected, the end of the day could not come too quickly.

“This is necessary of course,” Dr. Pinchon avers. “We need to see how the disease progresses in each of you. And, in your case, Ari, it progresses as predicted, perhaps a bit faster than Penny’s. But you are also somewhat older, aren’t you? So, this is expected,” he goes on.

Ari settles back onto his pillow, the stench of antiseptic in his nostrils. He has decided before the day of trials that he would accept medical examination and other insolences with equanimity. To rebel against nurses, doctors and technicians only slows the exam’s process. I am in their care, he says to himself, and as long as this is the case, as long as I have faith, I won’t fight them. Yet within himself, he recognizes the core of a fighting spirit which he has shackled as the day advances.

As for Penny, she grouses throughout the tests, complaining when the techs could not find a good vein, they stabbed her repeatedly in a frustrated effort to siphon out her blood. Like a wounded tiger, she lashes back at them, baring her teeth, telling them to fuck off until they can produce an individual capable of drawing blood without massacring her. Then come the brain scans in which she is required to lie still for ten minutes or longer, but after five she starts to kick in frustration. Sedating her, they return her to the machine and this time virtually catatonic, she protests little and allows them to peek into her nooks and crannies. Dr. Pinchon tells her that, in fact, she is resisting better than Ari, that her disease is evolving more slowly.

“And I’m in better shape,” she huffs. “If truth be known, I am fighting the disease as hard as I can.”

The doctor smiles. “I would give anything if I could extend your life for another year or so.”

Penny squeezes his hand in gratitude for this remark.

Ari is not done with Dr. Pinchon. He decides that if the treatment is worth a damn, it needs at the very least to prolong his life through the dream state. To know whether this is possible is to enter a dream, then compare the time elapsed within the dream with the time required to undergo it in the conscious state. The doctor supports this activity completely and says he will assign a nurse to watch over Ari that night to observe him once he enters REM sleep. That way, she could time the dream with some accuracy.

Ari has difficulty falling asleep. The very notion that something extraordinary may be lurking in his subconscious competes with his need to undergo dream therapy. Miriam, the assigned nurse, an exceedingly tall, thin but buxom woman, is sitting across from him yawning, waiting for him to cave. “I can’t sleep if you are watching me every second,” Ari protests with exasperation.

“So,” Miriam replies, “I shall descend down the hallway, and perhaps find a place to smoke a cigarette.”

“Smoke one for me too,” Ari replies. But now he feels less burdened as he watches Miriam shut the door to his room. He is hoping that she will smoke a very long cigarette, long enough for him to fall asleep before her return, but no sooner has he processed this thought, than his breathing becomes labored, and he intuits that he is yielding awareness. Within a few moments, Miriam, having returned, notes his rapid eye movements. Clearly, Ari has begun to dream. The dream itself will take some fourteen minutes, Miriam notes, unsure exactly as to when it may have ended.

Here is the dream. Ari is sitting in a classroom across from a student, a female named Aubree Marin. They are in English class, learning about the Romantic Period, and the professor upfront, an older, little man in suspenders with a puffy, red face, a tiny mustache, and suspenders is waxing lyrical about Wordsworth and daffodils, but Ari is missing the lyricism of his words, the sounds, the visual impact of the poetry, for two rows away, Aubree is captivating his sight, his mind, and his emotional being. She is a medium-sized girl with large, round breasts, dark brown hair, that at the beginning of the term was long, but now has been shortened to a page boy. Regretfully, Ari thinks, for he prefers her with long hair. Aubree does not turn. Her face is uplifted towards the professor and the wafting sounds of his voice spreading romance throughout the classroom. They are at the University of Pennsylvania and the classroom is teeming with students.

At the end of the class, Ari edges towards Aubree who is caught up in the melee of students exiting the room. After a moment, he wends his way to her, reaches her, noting the sway of her hips, the paisley skirt she is wearing swirling about her waist, rising gently to reveal more of a pale, shapely leg, drinking in the movement of her breasts as she strides a feminine, almost stately walk, down the corridor. He reaches her and begins to speak words she cannot hear momentarily due to the press of milling students.

Now Aubree turns to him. “Paul, she asks, did you enjoy the poetry?” She is standing there with her books cradled in her arms, angelic, lower lip quivering as it expels words, Ari transfixed on that lower lip. Paul! That is what she says. And for a moment, Miriam, outside of the dream, scribbling notes, remarks that Ari has become agitated, squirming, but the agitation lasts but a moment before he lapses back into the deep and calming abyss of the dream.

She called me Paul, he thinks to himself within the dream. Not Ari. For a moment, he panics, wondering what the hell is going on. Looking closely at the young man in the dream, it appears to be Ari as he may have been as a young man, the Ari he remembers, although it is now some fifty years later. But what does Paul look like? Wouldn’t Paul also look the same? In a flash, he comes to comprehend that this dream does not invoke his soap opera, Babylon Revisited. This is rather a dream which reflects a genuine life, and for some reason, this disturbs him so that his breathing labors. He tries to respond to Aubree, but his first words to her are lost in the bustle of students seething between the two of them. Paul ingests a rush of colors, of scents, perfumes and sweat, mouthwash, gums sparkling as mouths open and close laughing, while the rainbow of colors around him simply reflects the dance of students in movement.

“I would love to,” she replies.

For a moment Paul is at a loss. He does not know what she is assenting to until Ari, the dreamer, observing that Paul is befuddled, manages to whisper into his ear that she is agreeing to a date and then, Paul perks up and smiles. “Yes, he says, are we going to the movies?”

She looks at him as if he were a lost soul. “You don’t seem sure about this.”

With that, with the sense that his uncertainty is a turn-off and may even lead to total separation, he stops waffling, asserting that nothing would please him more, and within an instant, Aubree fades into that rainbow swirl of students. The students seem interchangeable, blending with one another in a swirl of colors and sounds, sucked into concrete yellow walls, the school itself slowly dissipating into a nameless mist. The scene is replaced by an ancient movie theatre. Old, dirty, ripped seats. Ari is holding a cone of popcorn with butter.

She is sitting primly next to him, a tiny grin spreading across full lips as a cartoon lights up the screen. Ari wants to hold hands with her, but his hands are greasy. Damn! He gets up, excusing himself politely, goes to the back of the theatre and retrieves napkins. He wipes his hands, his mouth clean. Then, sits again. Next to him, Aubree! This gorgeous girl is vibrant. He feigns watching the film. Gazes forward while to one side sits this enchantress, her grey and white sweater covering her breasts adorned only by a thin, golden necklace. The movie unfolds with Al Pacino, gun in hand, creeping stealthily through a factory yard, when all at once, as Al opens a heavy metallic door and alarms go off, Paul surreptitiously breathes hard, holds his breath, and reaches over to touch Aubree’s hand. For a moment, there is no film. Life stops. There is no sound. Their breathing ceases. The world outside ceases to spin. There is no birth, no death, nothing but the minute touch of his finger, a bit of nail, against the outside of her flesh when, guilelessly, without removing her eyes from the movie, she unfolds her fingers centimeter by centimeter permitting his enchanted finger to slide into her palm, that sweet, feminine, smooth, cool palm, and quietly, effortlessly, she closes her fingers gently about his, the subtle touch of her nails caressing one of his fingers. For a moment, Paul thinks he has achieved nirvana, and only his member swelling like a sprouting sapling reminds him that, in fact, while he is definitely horny, he does not subscribe to love. In an instant, Ari intuits what has gone wrong.

Ari, the dreamer filled with disgust within the dream is sitting next to Paul in the theatre. For all he senses from Paul is lust. LUST! The sole feeling this insensitive boor has for his girl is lust. If she had no vagina, he would not give her the time of day. Conquer her, make her submissive to him, lose himself in her dark place, this is all Paul wants. Ari is looking at the smirk which has formed along Paul’s mouth. If Ari could knock some sense into Paul he would do so, for Ari has learned over many years in Babylon Revisited that love is quintessential, not only possible, but necessary. After all, in Babylon he himself has been in love more than a half dozen times. Not that lust has been banned from the show. Far from it. Ari has a sense of a hundred lustful scenes in which he has appeared, for after all, in a show like Babylon, he recalls someone telling him over and over again: “It’s clear you gotta titillate the viewer to get the ratings.”

So, he watches intently as the movie progresses to its conclusion. He experiences intensely the touching that takes place, not only the hand holding but the movement of his arm enfolding the girl’s shoulder, fingers dangerously approaching her swelling breast, their heavy breathing that undulates about their seats like that of a purring cat. It is a wonder as the movie ends that Aubree doesn’t offer herself to him right there. Instead, she smooths out her skirt, rises demurely, and strides up the corridor with a coy smile on her face. A smile which signals a kind of victory. It is not meant for broadcast to one and all. Just to other girls who may be watching. And they would be watching, she is certain! As for Paul, reality has broken through the illusory state: Blue balls Vincit Omnia, yes, a triumph. To Ari’s relief, there will be no sex tonight. He turns to look at Paul’s face which has been radiant hot, now more and more vapid as he realizes the evening is nearing its end, a beige, vacant end. And with this, his dream fades as Ari elevates out of the dream, eyes opening, turns, yawns, looks at Miriam, and wonders what she knows.

“Wow,” she intones, looking up from her notes, “you had a lengthy dream. It took better than fifteen minutes as best I could judge. I couldn’t determine the time precisely,” she adds, ”but it was close to a quarter of an hour. Now it is for you to tell me how long you feel the dream took, and any special characteristics of the dream.”

Ari sits up slowly to shake the cobwebs out of his head. “There were three parts to the dream, he begins. First, I am in a classroom with a girl named Aubree. Second, we are walking through the school encountering hordes of students. Third, we are in the movies. But he adds quickly, the protagonist of the dream was not me. Yes, I was present, but the dream is about Paul.”

“I don’t understand,” Miriam says quickly.

“It doesn’t matter,” Ari replies. “Just note this and tell the doctor. He’ll get it. Just at this moment, something peculiar occurs. In his mind’s eye, a scene, perhaps a vision flashes into Ari’s mind, color, scent, sounds unfolding. In truth, only a partial scene. A hardwood floor. On it, a body. Whose body? He cannot see. Partially clad body. It is a woman. Diaphanous clothing. Next to her, panties. Blood-stained panties. Then a knife, a kitchen knife, black-handled, silver- serrated. Aura of despair in this place, the room projects doom, fury, fury spent. That is all he can see. But in an instant, Ari snaps back to reality.

“So how much time elapsed in the classroom? I would say about fifteen minutes. Less than five minutes in the hallway, but I sat next to Paul and Aubree in the movie theatre for most of the film which took well over an hour. So total, I would say I experienced living in the dream almost two hours.”

“Remarkable,” Miriam replies. “Anything else to add?”

“Yes,” Ari replies. “For the first time since I have been here, there were moments in the dream which reflected what we all go through from time to time. I mean drudgery, monotony, I felt it in the classroom for some time. Then, also in the movie theatre, I had to go to the bathroom at one point to pee. I was about twenty years old at the time so you’d think I could hold my water for a longer period. Part of the dream concerned those aspects of living which we don’t consider living at all but without which life has no connecting parts.”

Miriam notes all of this. “Anything else?”

“Well, we had to stand in line for popcorn. There were five or six individuals or couples ahead of us. Why would that occur in the dream? It served no purpose that I could see. It was like waiting for a bus or a doctor. Senseless. Nothing happened during this five-minute wait except irritation. Paul was irritated.”

“And you?”

“Yes. Me too. I remember thinking or feeling that the theatre could have opened another line to accommodate us.”

“Were there people behind you?” Miriam asked.

Ari straightens up and frowns. “I don’t know but that’s a really good question.”

Miriam gets up. “I’ll report all of this to the doctor, and I’m sure he will want to discuss it with you once he analyses it.”

“Yes,” Ari grins, “let him analyze it.”

But when he recounts the dream to Penny, she is less amused. “Your Paul is a pig,” she says caustically. “It is clear that all he wants to do is get laid.”

“I’m not sure of that,” Ari responds. “True, I sensed his lust, but surely there is more to Paul than that.”

Penny shakes her head. “You make too many allowances.”

“Funny,” Ari grins,” isn’t getting laid one of your objectives?”

“Ha ha,” Penny whistles sardonically, forcing a laugh. “But I have real feelings for you. It’s not just a mechanical thing, not just rubbing and getting off.”

“I’m glad,” Ari says, taking her hand. “But you do understand,” he adds with a little sparkle in his voice, “that when you disparage Paul you are disparaging me at the same time.”

For some reason, Penny is taken aback at this, and sits silently for a moment.

“I’ve thought about that, about who you truly are,” she begins. “You claim to be the product of a soap opera, that the real you, that bad boy Paul who gave rise to you by acting, is to be shunned. Paul is not the person I have feelings for. However you were given birth and grew through Babylon Revisited, you are more than a role, more than Paul’s acting or his projection of what he thought was required for the role. You are your own man.”

Surprised at this, Ari looks down and begins to sob. “I am terrified that I am nobody, that precisely, I owe everything to Paul, that I am his caricature, his puppet. Whatever he decrees, whatever is in a show beyond my control, that is me. That I am nothing outside of my creator.”

With that, Penny draws him close to her and kisses Ari on the mouth.

12.Penny and Ari Flee

In the morning, Ari notices blood stains on his hand. Blood is dripping on his hand, and now onto the sheet. A nosebleed has begun. Stuffs a tissue into his nose to stop it. As he does so, his right arm begins to jerk noticeably and, try as he may, he cannot subdue it. Muscle spasms continue for several minutes, but then stop of their own accord. The nosebleeds continue an additional fifteen minutes, but then also cease.

Hearing of this, Penny says: “We need to leave the Institute.”

“To the contrary,” Ari replies, “if this is a symptom of the cow illness, don’t we need to stay?”

“No,” she nods vigorously. “If you are dying,” she continues harshly, “then let’s spend our dying time together in pleasant pursuits. Or do you prefer to have nurses and doctors with implements in your spine, up your butt, and convulsing your brain?”

Ari frowns. “Of course, I don’t want any of that, but if it is part of the treatment….”

Penny looks at him gravely. “You can die like a sot here, or you can come with me, and we can live it up for a time. Which would you prefer?”

“Well,” Ari says, bursting out laughing, “if you put it that way, when’s the next boat outta here?”

“Good man,” Penny says, kissing him on the cheek. “We’ll get Bertrand to drive us into town and from there we will take off.”

Ari looks crestfallen. “I have no money.”

Penny scoffs. “Money is the last of your worries. I have plenty. Think of the life you will lead tomorrow. No longer meds, no more prodding, no more Morris.”

Ari gasps. “Shouldn’t I tell Morris?”

“You are a fool sometimes,” Penny replies, but in gentle tones. “Say nothing to anyone. Morris works for his own interests which don’t coincide with ours

“Yes,” Ari concludes, “best not to tell anyone.”

In the morning after breakfast, after they have downed their meds, Bertrand drives them into Nancy and deposits them before the Hotel de Ville.

“I’ll pick you up around three,” he says. “Don’t do anything foolish,” he adds, smiling.

“We are citizens on holiday,” Penny replies grinning, and Bertrand leaves them with a wave of his hand. “Now,” Ari says, turning to Penny. “What shall we do? We could take in a film…”

“We’re taking the TGV to Strasbourg,” she replies with only a trifle annoyance, and with that she hails a cab to drive them to the train station. She procures two tickets with seat reservations for the TGV which will leave in another hour and will pull into Strasbourg about an hour and a half later.

In the café of the station, the two sit around a table, drinking espresso, snacking on croissants and watching great iron machines pull into the station with billows of steam pouring from their engines.

“You did not tell me whether you had a dream last night.” Penny questions, turning to Ari.

“I did,” Ari replies, “I’ll tell you on the train. I’m too excited now waiting for ours to arrive.”

“I also had a dream,” Penny says. “It is among my first. It concerns my first husband. Shall I tell you?”

“Thank God, somebody besides me had a dream,” he sighs. “Please do tell me yours.”

“I am with Walter, my husband, Penny begins, in our home in Seattle. From our condo, we can see Green Lake which sometimes we walk. Walter used to run the lake but he injured himself and swears that he can’t run anymore. We are in our condo taking breakfast, and it is a gorgeous Seattle morning. Meaning, it’s overcast but not cold, and I am eager to scoot around the lake. Walter demurs. He says he doesn’t quite feel well, and wants to know how long I’ll be. About two hours, I tell him. He smiles, kisses me on the cheek, and I go off first to stretch, then walk. But within a half-hour, I am having cramps, some quite severe, and I believe I need to curtail this promenade and return home. But when I re-enter our home, Walter is absent. I consider this for a moment, and wonder whether my husband has not gone downstairs to engage Artenisia Holbert who lives on the first floor and who stops to see us from time to time. Artenisia is an over-sized, buxom mulatto woman with a teen-aged son who is in juvi for putting a half dozen steaks in his trousers from the local 7-11. I go downstairs and knock on the door. No answer. But I hear fairly loud music emanating from inside, and I knock again. No answer. I walk around the side of the condo to a window which has blinds at half-mast and peek in, just to see, you know, whether all is well with Artenisia. She is a very large woman, perhaps six foot three and well over three hundred pounds and when she laughs, her flesh tangos from side to side. I needn’t have worried for Walter’s safety for I am looking with incredulous eyes at this behemoth astride my husband like the monumental Colossus of Rhodes, and the first thought that occurs to me in the dream is that she must not be enjoying the pinprick which is Walter’s member, and wondering what good comes riding my man like a warrior on a stallion. And with that, the dream jostles me awake.”

“Quite a dirty dream,” Ari replies, looking at Penny who is clearly shaken by it. “Based on fact?”

Penny shrugs. “I couldn’t say with regards to this particular woman. In real life, I never saw them together, although I suspected there was some kind of relationship between them. I suspected this because he once confessed to me that he had been unfaithful to me on four separate occasions, but he would not reveal with whom. And for a time, I tried to make us work until I could no longer bear the sight of his perfidious being and chased him out of the house as if he were a flea-ridden cur.”

“Ok,” Ari says, unsure whether to pursue her husband’s infidelity, “what about the quality of the dream?”

“You mean whether it was in Cinemascope or Dolby Sound?”

“Exactly.”

“I hate to disappoint you,” Penny replies, “but the dream was like many I have had, fluid, shapeless sometimes, a little more vivid than others perhaps, but in general, not unfamiliar.”

Shaking his head, Ari scowls. “How disappointing!”

“The good thing is that I could remember the dream at all. It has been many years since I recall dreaming.”

“So, you do think that something here is evolving for the better.”

“Too early to say,” Penny replies, sitting back in her comfy armchair now as the train starts to whiz through the countryside. In time, the engine plunges into the Vosges, along bubbling streams bordering verdant pastures with great herds of cows and sheep. Above them, Ari discerns the lazy circle of two playful hawks seemingly trailing the train’s progress. In what feels like a few moments, the TGV slows to a crawl entering the station at Strasbourg.

They make their way to the old town and, specifically, to the Munster, the great cathedral of Strasbourg begun in the 12th century. Construction went on for several hundred years, Penny reads in the church brochure. Gothic architecture. Vaulted ceilings are breathtaking. They stop before a 14th-century astronomical clock which, hourly, produces a series of both adults and children parading towards a final embrace with Death.

“This could be us,” Ari says dourly, “dancing into the arms of nothing.”

“Surely you are pointing to the kids, not the seniors,” Penny laughs.

“We are all embraced by death,” Ari exclaims. Then bites his tongue not wishing to be grim.

“Another cheery thought before lunch,” Penny replies, taking Ari’s hand and pressing her fingernails into his.

“Ouch,” he responds, not unpleasantly.

Walking along the old town with its plethora of small tourist boutiques, they stop at a restaurant to sample a choucroute, then with an Alsace Riesling flowing in their veins, stroll along the banks of the river to observe the parade of boats floating down the Rhine.

“On the other side is Germany,” Penny observes. “Maybe we should rent a car and take the Autobahn to Frankfurt.”

No sooner have these words left her mouth, then a large black van pulls up beside them and stops, its motor continuing to throb. Bertrand and another man, a man they have never before seen, unusually tall and muscular, step out of the car.

“You’ve caused us plenty of trouble,” Bertrand shouts at them resolutely.

Ari turns to Penny, his mouth open in surprise and consternation. “I told you we should have gone to the movies.”

“It’s those damn chips, the embedded chips,” she says to him underneath her breath.

The other man is now reaching for Penny’s arm. She does not resist.

“In less ancient times,” she says to Ari, “I would have said let’s make a run for it, but I don’t think we’d get very far these days”.

“What are you going to do with us?” Ari asks Bertrand.

“We are driving you back to Nancy,” Bertrand says sharply.

“To the Institute?”

“Back to the Institute,” Bertrand affirms.

“Even though we don’t wish to return?”

“You have no choice in this matter,” Bertrand says.

“Why don’t we?” Penny exclaims, clearly aggravated.

The large man steps between the two of them. “You don’t seem to grasp,” he says in perfect English, the considerable investment made in both of you. Didn’t it ever occur to you that we are subsidizing your entire stay? How do you think we survive? We ordinarily collect thousands of dollars monthly from our patients. So, you benefit not only from a very expensive treatment, but room and board to boot. In return, we ask you to follow simple instructions as they are laid out for you.”

The statement quieted Ari and Penny, each in his own thoughts. Resistant, still, they feel they have no choice but to comply with their captors. As the car wends its way onto the highway linking Strasbourg with Nancy, the two huddle together in the back seat. Ari begins to relate his own dream to Penny.

“The funny thing about the dream is that it extends and completes the one I had the night before. You know, the one about Aubree. I rarely have dreams in succession which are linked. You recall I told you about the dream in which Paul lusts to seduce Aubree. In the first dream, Aubree has resisted Paul’s advances for some time. But this day, as the dream unfolds, the two of them are stretched out together on the ground in a park observing clouds flitting above them. They are describing to each other their perception of what each cloud resembles or evokes when, late in the afternoon, Aubree reaches over to press her body over Paul’s and kisses him fully on the mouth. Not just a kiss. Not the kiss of someone who is filled with gratitude for such a nice day. Not the kiss of a sister to a brother, but the kiss of a woman who, like a blossom, is, at this moment, unfurling to ingest the rays of the sun. Paul turns to her after the kiss and says nothing, looks at her eyes, notices her lower curling lip curling some more, eyes wide open, fingers caressing his face, and says firmly: “Time for us to be together.” Nodding, Aubree stands, smooths her dress and places an arm around Paul’s waist as he rises.

And then they re-appear in a large room. I would say its Paul’s bedroom, but it feels much larger in my estimation, perhaps three times larger, but how I would know this I cannot fathom. Everything is white, unbearably so. Walls are white, sheets white, the sun is bursting through a large window and when Paul looks down, Aubree is naked before him, sheening snowy vulnerable, her mouth inviting his lips, her hand shaping his hand over a silvery breast.

I am in the room with them and I cannot believe what is unfolding. For unlike Aubree, I recognize Paul’s appetite and his guile. I would have said feelings if I could detect any. I become angry that Aubree sees nothing, that she is unable to get through Paul’s veil of cynicism. All she sees right now is his thin, hairless body descending onto hers. They are making love, I powerless to intervene, and yet the hairs on the back of my head are shooting up as I accept that the man inside the woman beneath him is... In fact, me. Confusion. My mouth is dry. I have no words. No saliva. Guts churning. My soul feels as if it were decaying right in front of me. Sex is continuing, Aubree relishing the moment, moaning, Paul engaged and focused, his eyes boring into the face of the woman beneath him, I participating in the act as both witness and participant through my oneness with Paul, and yet loathing the man as never before.

“Jekyll and Hyde,” Penny remarks simply once Ari concludes. “One part of you is the bad boy, the seducer, the other part, the sweet boy. No wonder you are agitated. No wonder it is crucial for you to figure out who this Paul truly is, how much of that person you are…or were.”

“The dream had one more segment,” Ari continues, “one that reveals much more about Paul. I could not say how much time elapsed. My sense is that it was much later, perhaps a month later when Paul is entering his apartment. He fails to turn on a light, sighs, sits down before his desk, fills a tumbler with scotch, pulls out a sheaf of paper and writes the following to Aubree:

“It’s not working for me any longer. No question that I was madly taken by you when we first met and in weeks to follow, but something has happened. Something which is difficult to explain. All I know is that I have lost, what is the word, interest. Once I could not spend five minutes of the day without thinking of you, wanting you. But that time has passed. Doesn’t it always? Is it because you are a more passive individual than I? This may be the case, that I don’t see a future for us where I alone am a mover and shaker. I need somebody in my life who advances at the same speed of light as me, if not faster. I am leaving the apartment to you today. When you come home from classes you will not find me. Or my belongings. I regret any upset this will cause you, but I believe in the long run that you will understand the appropriateness of my action. Paul.”

Cringing, Penny sighs sadly. “How devastating for that poor girl. What a piece of work this Paul is. I cannot believe that anyone would stoop so low, to take advantage of a girl, shape her into a dessert to consume when he desires it, and then, when he has taken in his fill, simply walk away. A man so cowardly that he fails to confront Aubree in person to tell her that he is through with her.”

“I have no explanation for it,” Ari says, shaking his head. “Only a lowlife would write these words. Not even talk to the girl? Just write a note to evade the consequences. Either cowardice or perhaps, laziness. He simply could not be bothered to explain himself to her.”

The van stops on the highway at an Aire to fill up, and to take time for them to visit the restroom.

“Want an ice cream?” Bertrand asks them.

“You’re not mad at us?” Penny asks.

“But for an instant,” he responds, clearly in better spirits.

“What a mess I’ve become,” Ari remarks to Penny as they step out of the car. For that part of me which is Paul…”

Penny smiles and lifts a hand in protest. “It’s not you. I don’t see Paul in you in the slightest. Maybe at one time in your past, but certainly not now. You are a decent, loving man. And how interesting you are! Penny continues. Look at poor me. I only have one rather simple identity. I envy you your two, and even the battle between the two of you for supremacy, for ultimately, as I see it, one of you will prevail over the other.”

Ari fails to see the involuntary, jerky movements of her right hand as Penny lowers it behind her.

13.Maddie Comes to Visit

From a sofa in the central foyer, Morris watches Bertand hold Ari by one arm and assist him into the Institute, observes him trudging along the corridor to his room. “You caused us a real fright,” Morris says gruffly to Ari, following him quickly. “Why do we need to hunt for you throughout France when you can get treatment here for your disease?”

For a moment, Ari is ready to do battle, to inform Morris that perhaps his idea of what is in Ari’s best interest doesn’t coincide with Ari’s. More recently, he has learned from Penny to exercise caution in dealings with Morris as well as the staff of the Institute. This includes Bertrand. He holds his tongue.

“The cost of sending two men to trail you to Strasbourg is….Morris is,” continuing to rant, but Ari has already tuned this out. Before Morris can finish his recriminations, Ari has shut his eyes. After a moment, Morris’s drone actually cradles him into a doze. In a moment, Morris throws up his hands in disgust, rises and steps out of the room.

The following morning, after breakfast and a cocktail of meds, Ari hears the sound of the chopper landing on the helipad. Looks out the window to see the pad buzzing with activity as the chopper ceases whirring and a woman steps out followed by two men, each carrying two pieces of luggage. Within a half hour, there is a knock on Ari’s door. An elegantly dressed woman in heels steps in, a woman perhaps a dozen years his junior, attractive and tailored by some elite couturier, a dress of spangled blues over a dark navy field. She reminds him of a magnificent, vibrant Statue of Liberty, but why she suggests such a resemblance, he cannot say.

“Well, there you are,” she says almost curtly as she spies Ari sitting up in his pajamas.

“Yes, here I am,” Ari replies pleasantly. And you are…?”

A momentary silence. “Me?” She laughs raucously for an instant. “Morris says you are not yourself. What an understatement! I am Maddie.”

Ari hesitates for an instant. “Yes, that name sort of rings a bell.”

“You bet your ass it rings a bell, Paul. We were married, horribly married. In fact, she laughs, married several times, each one more atrocious than the last. That should ring a bell or two.”

At these words, Ari struggles to put them into a context he can understand.

“I do remember you,” he says slowly. “I remember your voice especially, and it is true we were married. But your name is not Maddie. It is Lilou, a girl from Quebec.”

Maddie squeals with laughter and now pulls up a chair to sit next to Ari. “Yes,” she bellows, “it was Lilou in Babylon Revisited. I am your off and on sweetheart, mistress and wife for some twenty years. We met on the set of the TV soap in New York. You must remember our first meeting, don’t you? Morris said you weren’t in touch, but this….”

Ari slumps down in his bed. He has so much to say, yet nothing issues forth, and finally, he holds his tongue.

“You look awful,” Maddie continues. “Unshaven, thin, scruffy…how much weight have you lost? At least twenty pounds. Scrawny little man,” she adds shaking her head. She holds out a hand bedecked with diamond and gold bracelets. “Give me your hand,” Paul, she says. Her perfume wafts through the room and into his nostrils. Sneezing, he turns away and hides his hands under the sheets. “What are you doing here”? he asks her.

She snorts. “Morris called me to tell me of your prognosis. Said you were thinking of doing something rash. Called me to tell me you had gone missing with some floosie. Just like you, Paul.”

“Penny is not a floosie,” Ari retorts.

“Whatever,” Maddie shrugs. “Anyway, I’m trying to do you a favor by flying here to see whether I can help jog your memory. And furthermore, to stop you from more bad behavior. It just seemed the right thing for me to come and be with my little actor.”

“But that is not necessary,” Ari avers. “I don’t quite know who you are. I haven’t been able to connect with the part of me that is Paul since I came out of my coma. I am Ari Bloom.”

“The wimp of Babylon,” Maddie snickers.

Ari shifts in his bed angrily, yet decides to ignore her taunt. “How long do you intend to stay?”

She lifts her hand to her temple as if she were in deep thought. She replies in a thoughtful manner. “Until we can settle your problem.”

“I don’t have a problem,” Ari exclaims, “except the insoluble one called life…true I haven’t quite figured that one out.” At this point, bewildered, unclear as to who this woman is, Ari claims fatigue, insists he needs to sleep, that he has swallowed a dozen meds, and that he can scarcely keep his eyes open.

“Poor cutie,” Maddie says to him gently. “Nod off and we’ll chat again after you’ve had your siesta”.

But for two hours, Ari cannot. Simply to see this baffling woman troubles his soul into a profound sadness. He does not wish to see her again, certainly not as Maddie. He feels comfortable with her as Lilou, the Montreal journalist who has lost her right arm at birth to thalidomide. About Lilou he wants to know everything, but for this Maddie person, whoever she truly was, he does not care. Something in her aura rubs him the wrong way. But when he finally falls asleep, she reappears in his dream. A little off kilter, as if he were in a theatre observing the opening of a play. The dream opens in Ari’s apartment, an elegant if small space overlooking the Hudson River on the West End of town. There is soft music drifting in the background which swells as the dream progresses.

Lilou: Ari! (Lilou gasps) I’m alive. I’ve made it back home!

Ari: (Also gasping, jumps up) But that’s not possible. I witnessed your accident. I watched your car smash into the railing and careen into the swirling waters of the Hudson. I watched them prying out your limp and disfigured body from the waters and hoist you up to shore.

Lilou: Yes, Ari, I was covered by dirt, seaweed and debris, and declared dead by the coroner himself, but just as they were about to zip up the body bag over my face, to deliver my corpse to the funeral home for incineration, someone noticed my left eye blinking. Just a tiny wink, but enough for Phyllis my cousin to frantically CPR me. Long after everyone had left, pronounced dead, I returned to life. Can you believe it? Dead but resurrected! Your sweet Lazarus! I had even seen the promised vision, a thousand bright lights beckoning me to move towards them.

Ari: It’s a miracle, Lilou. I’m thrilled to see you. I thought I had lost you forever (Now Ari runs over to Lilou throws his arms around her. He begins to sob).

Lilou: (Steadfast, holds him off at arm’s length) Do you know where I was driving in such a hurry? Ari, do you?

(The phone rings and Ari is about to pick up the receiver when he is interrupted by Lilou. Now a drumbeat begins and steadily increases as the scene continues to unfold. Underneath the drums, music to accompany the unfolding scene).

“Don’t pick up that phone. What I have to say is too important. I was driving home to see you, to tell you that our affair is finished, that I can’t take it anymore, that your constant flip-flopping, your inability to control your life, damn it, your inability to control me, has turned me against you for good.”

Ari: (Protesting) But I just found you plucked from the jaws of death.

Lilou: (Steely) What I have to communicate is not pleasant, Ari, but it needs to be said. You know that I care about you, that I have for a very long time. Still, I find myself unhappy and so I’m leaving you.

Ari: It’s Martin, isn’t it? That bow-legged pimply-faced Marine who has been stalking you for months!

Lilou: Ari, don’t speak ill of my war hero. Martin has true respect for me, something you’ve never offered. Sure, you’re glad to see me now, but I know you. I know your respect won’t last more than a day or two, and then you’ll go right back to your carping wishy-washiness. I’m tired of catering to you, picking up your tailoring, cleaning your dishes, figuring how much you’re supposed to tip waiters. Martin doesn’t expect anything from me but affection, attention and, I have to admit, she adds with a coy twinkle, my naked, slim, perfect body.

Ari: (Flustered, angry, unable to sit or stand) Damn, Lilou, you bitch! Now I wish nobody had seen that flicker of your eye.

Lilou: (Outraged) Bastard! This is the real you which I intend to dump this very moment. What a relief it will be for me to chat with someone who truly cares for me.

(Lilou storms out leaving Ari to sit down slowly in an armchair and pull out a cigar which he places between his teeth but does not light. The music now diminishes).

When Ari awakens with a brief start, he recalls the dream with a certain affection, for this is the context of his relationship with Lilou. Loving, fucking, fighting, creating space between one and the other, then narrowing it. Leaving one day only to beg to return the next. Yes! These are the elements of his relationship with his true and only love, his Canadian journalist, Lilou.

14.Penny has a Chat with Maddie

Penny also witnesses Maddie descending from the sky via helicopter, and from Bertrand discovers that it is his ex. “His ex?” she almost screams. “What possibly could she be doing here?”

“His ex on Babylon Revisited,” Bertrand emphasizes, seeking to re-assure Penny. “And Mr. Ari did not call her. It was Morris who did so.”

“But Ari does not even remember this woman, does he?”

“If not, she will remind him,” Bertrand predicts, scratching his jaw pensively. “0f this, I am certain.”

Penny determines that she must speak with Maddie at once. After dinner, she walks over to the room number indicated by Bertrand and raps on the door.

“Enter,” a rather brusque voice says.

Opening the door, Penny observes the tall, well-dressed figure of Maddie lounging on a sofa by the window. Stamping out a cigarette, she props herself up by an elbow and bids Penny enter and sit.

“I am a friend of Ari’s,” Penny says by way to explain herself. “His girlfriend, in fact. Penny Fisher.” The word ‘girlfriend’ elicits giggles from Maddie.

“Listen, lady, you cannot be a friend of Ari because Ari is a cartoon character imagined by gifted writers, and he only has friends in the scripts they write for him. As for me, I am the ex-wife, mistress, lover, girlfriend, and all-purpose female figure in Ari’s universe. You do know,” she adds seeing Penny’s crestfallen face, “that Ari and Paul are one and the same person.”

“Maybe,” Penny replies sitting, “but they are totally different in temperament, in morality, in outlook.”

“Yes,” Maddie replies ruefully, “so true. Paul, the one I wanted to marry, is a go-getter, an actor who made it big in soap opera land. Ari, the poor sap, is the character in the series whom we have followed almost from birth to his forthcoming death, a soft-hearted weakling, who nonetheless managed, thanks to the febrile imagination of his writers, to triumph. Not only the writers,” she adds, “but the hordes of women who followed his every adventure and offered to guide him through any problem he ever encountered. Certain women adore misfits, imagine that. Ari developed into a financier, honest maybe for a six-week period, but then the lure of big money caught his fancy and he became very naughty. Champagne-style larceny,” she cackles. “This activity is the only one, however, in which he showed any semblance of manhood, so I didn’t disparage it at all. At the end of the day, Ari is a limp dick. Cast aside the cartoon character and you get Paul, a true man’s man.”

Penny scoffs and leans back. “Then take Paul away with you, because the one I care about is Ari.”

Maddie snorts. “Now how do you suppose I do that? I can’t take Paul and leave Ari behind no matter how much I try. For the moment, the only one who is available to be taken is Ari.”

“Pity,” Penny replies coyly.

Maddie stands up. “You love that horse’s ass,” she cringes, shaking a quaking finger at Penny.

“I do love him,” Penny responds,” and that is why I came to talk to you.”

“Shoot.”

“What are you really doing here? My Ari is a man weakening by the month. He doesn’t have much longer on this earth and, from what he has told me, he doesn’t even know who you are.”

“I can remind him quickly why he loved me,” Maddie shoots back.

“And I,” Penny retorts, “doubt that. I think he has forgotten you because you are what was insufficient in his past life, a forgettable, disposable, and unnecessary woman.”

Maddie’s lips curl about each one another in a forced smile. “Really!” She blurts out, her eyes now aflame.

“Really! He has chosen to be Ari. He has chosen to be the good profile, not the bad one. And, further, he has chosen me.”

“You know,” Maddie replies, “I almost think you desire that shell of a man. Not for his money because he ain’t worth all that much. You may really care for that poor decrepit, meaningless guy who is sinking into the grave day by day.”

“I share his disease.”

“That explains it,” Maddie roars with approval. “Misery loving company. You want to die together, to go out holding hands as the angels play your song. Yeah, you’ll be murmuring soft romantic hymns to one another as your lives flicker out.” She claps to applaud what she has just heard.

“I expect us to live together until the end,” Penny says resolutely, “whatever it brings.”

“Sounds like bad soap opera,” Maddie demurs, “and you know I know soaps. Look, I get Paul. I know what he is like. I know his faults; cripes, there are legions, but I care for that fool anyway. He makes me tingle even as other women flee from him. The truth of the matter is that he dumped me years ago for another girl who, in true Paul fashion, he dismissed few months later. And I mean got dismissed! That’s the way Paul is. But I need that guy. He is a commanding figure in my life. Remember: this is the actor who was able to play the role of that weak sister, Ari, for decades. Now that is a true achievement.”

“Not so great,” Penny says. “After all, Ari was always in him.”

“I truly doubt that.”

For a moment, the two women stand glaring at one another.

“So. what do you expect from him?

“I want to stay here with Paul. I want him to be with me,” Maddie says more softly now. “Or maybe I’d like to see him croak. I haven’t quite decided which, but I’m clear that I want to be with him to the last.”

Penny laughs. “So, like Solomon, we need to cut him in half. You take Paul, and I’ll take the other half.”

“Sounds like a good plan. I’d like to be wielding the sword that slices them in twain. I’ll tell you this much, Miss Penny. I’ll never relinquish Paul to you. We’ll see once I’ve connected with him again which one of us he chooses.”

“That should be the easy part,” Penny says. “He doesn’t see himself as Paul, nor can he even relate to that person within him. Ari is the person who loves me.”

“Hmmm,” Maddie sighs. “Awfully sure of yourself for someone who just got acquainted with this man. Whoever you believe he may be, Paul is more powerful. I have no doubt as to who will prevail. My guy just needs a bit of time to get back in touch with his devilish side. To the victor will go the spoils,” she adds laughing.

When Penny leaves, Maddie searches out Morris who is standing on a balcony overlooking the rear of the Institute. He puts down a cigarette when Maddie calls his name. After she relates the conversation she has just had with Penny, she sits down with a thud. “I’ve known that woman for just a few moments, and I already despise her.”

“Calm yourself,” Morris says.

“Good advice,” Maddie replies nervously. “I never thought I’d be in competition with anybody. You never told me about Penny when you asked me to fly over.”

“There was no Penny then,” Morris says. Now he pours a glass of white wine for Maddie. “Good Riesling,” he says. “Drink up. Your nerves are shot.”

“Anyway,” Maddie says contemplatively, “who the hell is this woman?”

“Just another patient,” Morris answers.

“But she has an inside track on my man,” Maddie continues nervously.

“Yes, on Ari,” Morris corrects her. “But Ari is only now beginning to call up the Paul who gave birth to him. Once that acknowledgment is solidified, then I think you’ll find Penny no obstacle at all.”

Maddie sips pensively. “Maybe I should have stayed home.”

Morris scratches his whiskers, sips at his wine. “Maddie, remember it was me who recommended you to the corporation. I thought you might help after watching Penny’s influence on Ari and their escape, feeble though it may have been. Anyway, do you really want to mope over an old man about to die? You’re still young enough to find somebody else, a younger, healthier, more vital man.”

“I can’t stomach the idea that he’s dumping me again for somebody else,” Maddie responds. “I’d like the bastard to pay for the way he’s treated me in the past. No, money wasn’t the reason I accepted.”

“Still, life hasn’t been treating you badly, has it? You flew over in business class, and how did you arrive at the Institute? Oh yes, by helicopter,” he trumpets in her face.

“List all the amenities you want,” Maddie responds, “but that doesn’t bring me any closer to my objective.”

“Give it time,” Morris says. “Every day is an opportunity for Ari to blend into his maker.”

Maddie howls. “You make it sound as if my guy is in a mixing bowl.”

“In a way. He just needs to absorb the right ingredients, a correct way of integrating himself with Ari.”

“Ok,” Maddie says mollified, “then I’ll wait. And I’ll also have another glass of wine.”

15. Ari Finds Himself in Jail

That night, Ari undergoes the first in a series of unusual experiences. He is watching National Television, concentrating on the news broadcast in French and, after a time, even though he grasps individual words, cannot make the link to comprehension, and gives it up as a bad job. He realizes he will have to recapture his mind to understand anything, much less a news program. I don’t have enough time for that, he says to himself grimly. Somewhat drowsy, he finds a place between wakefulness and sleep in which he lapses into daydreams. The nurse is gone for the evening and Ari is alone in his private room, his meds swallowed and absorbed. He turns out the lights in a semi-drowsy state and, after a time, an illumination in his brain amplifies, then explodes into a brilliant series of images and sounds.

As he turns around to grasp an unfamiliar location, he finds himself in a prison cell as a much younger man. Looking down, he sees that he is wearing an orange jumpsuit. In a small mirror over a wash basin, a number is inscribed. He cannot quite see the name in detail, but assumes that it is a prison in which he finds himself. Now he looks up to see two bunks. In the upper bunk, a young man about his age with the tattoo of an anaconda wrapped around much of the flesh of his scarred neck. “That’s a hell of a tattoo,” Ari remarks.

The boy stretches out in the upper bunk, scratches his arm, and snickers. “That’s what you always say. If you like it so much you ought to get one.”

“When I get out.”

“Yeah, I’ll be rotting here while you’re out in a couple of weeks boogeying.”

A police guard comes in and waves Ari to the front of the cell. Motioning for the cell to open, he brings Ari out without handcuffing him.

“Have a fun time,” his roomie calls out.

They walk down a corridor of cells. Convicts are sleeping, a few humming or rattling the bars of their cells rhythmically, several standing before the cracked silver mirror askew over their wash basins. As Ari walks down the hallway, he smells a jumble of feces, sweat, after-shave. He peers into cells as if his eyes could zoom in to assimilate the detail of faces. He counts the whiskers on one, distinguishes the shade of brown and gray eyebrows on another. Whisked away, Ari is ushered into a green room constructed of concrete blocks where he is confronted by a man in a suit whom he recognizes but whose name he does not know or, more exactly, cannot summon up.

“Ari,” the well-dressed man says. He puts out his hand. Ari takes it, shakes it.

“Sit,” the man says. Ari sits upright.

“They treating you ok?”

“Yeah,” he responds shakily.

“I’ve got the exact date of your release now,” the man says.

“You are my lawyer?” Ari asks.

The man replies quizzically. “As I always have been. Are you ok, Ari?”

“Fine,” Ari replies. “Super.”

A cranky voice from a distance pierces the momentary silence. “Get on with it,” the voice cries out. “Move it!”

“So. you’ll be out a week from Tuesday at noon. You could elect to have a final lunch here, but I thought it would be in your interest to leave earlier. Was that all right?”

“Perfect!” Ari responds.

“Not so loquacious today,” the lawyer says, his eyebrows knitting.

“Had a bad night,” Ari replies.

“The deal is this. You’ll come out before noon and Lilou and I will be waiting for you in my sedan. It’s a Lexus, a black Lexus in case you’ve forgotten,” the man continues, lifting his eyes to look intently at his client. “We’ll take you to a nice lunch at Violette’s. Beer or champagne, your choice. Be sure the guards give you all your papers, clothes, but most importantly, check your wallet. They’ve been known to withhold a card or two…or even a bill,” he smiles.

“Yeah. Checking the wallet!” Ari repeats.

“Here’s the deal we worked out. You’re out of jail for two years. But in the interim, you are not to engage in any financial consulting. No stock trading for anybody except yourself. Got it?”

“Was I that bad a boy?” Ari asks hoping that sort of question would generate better answers. For the moment, he feels adrift and fails to understand the context of his situation.

“Do I have to review the charge with you again?” The lawyer gripes. “You had inside information about companies on which you traded and made a bundle. Beyond that, you told your clients to buy stock well after you when the stock had risen enormously. In other words, your clients bought at the top just before the decline. In one case, one guy got back little or nothing at all. That wasn’t very nice,” he adds, his tone derisive. “Yes, I’d say you were a bad boy and the SEC agreed with that assessment, and so did a jury of your peers.”

“So, no trading for others. That’s all?” He asks tentatively.

“Four hundred hours community service work,” the man replies. “I’ve been over this with you before, Ari. You sure you’re ok?”

“Is that it?” Ari asks, ignoring the question.

“That’s it. But you got to remain a model citizen for two years or they can break the deal and throw your ass back here for several more years. Got it?”

“I think so. But why are you bringing Lilou?”

“Are you kidding?” The man answers rising. “She loves you.”

Ari wracks his brain for a moment, and then hears himself speaking. “She cheated on me.”

The man straightens his tie while pursing his lips. “Maybe you don’t deserve a hot girl like her…”

Ari smiles. “I guess a girl that hot is gonna do what she likes. Does she still dress well?”

“The best,” the man says. When his lawyer compliments Lilou, it always feels as if he’s praising his boner.

“But she never came to visit me in jail.”

“I wouldn’t know about that.”

“But, I won’t need to plan a jailbreak,” Ari says, now relaxing.

“Not if you can wait a few days more.”

“I was fancying a jailbreak,” Ari muses idly.

“Stop talking nonsense. I’ll see you at noon a week from Thursday.”

Returning to his cell, Ari’s guards slip away one by one, and a convict in an orange jumpsuit begins to walk alongside. “Getting lovely treatment, are you?” The man asks.

“Talking to my lawyer,” Ari replies nervously. He looks around for other guards but there are none. Nor can he hear the usual clang of convicts rustling in their cells, the sound of humming or murmuring, of music or loud, raucous talk. Instead, an eerie vacuum pervades the silent block, and as he moves the several hundred yards remaining towards his cell, he suddenly stops, turns to the man next to him, a man with blazing black luminous eyes and a goatee, and says. “Do you need something from me?”

Laughing, the man catches Ari by his arm and brings him to a total halt. “I don’t want nothin’ from you, he answers. But there could be others who don’t like the way you did business, and before you leave our little social group, maybe you’ll learn from the message I am bringing you.”

“What message?”

“This one,” the man says, and hammers Ari in his ribs with two closed fists. Falling, Ari watches the man’s boot lifting above his face before he blacks out. He falls to the ground, his temple bleeding, and now a great roar emanates from the cellblock, the swelling sound of a raucous band of apes in jubilation, convicts springing onto their iron constraints as if the block were a jungle full of unleashed primates, screaming and bouncing off the gates while, above Ari’s head, boots continue to descend kicking and beating him to a frazzle.

Suddenly, Ari comes to with a scream of his own and bangs his head on a bedside table as he collides with the lamp. He recalls the moment this attack took place. Then he recalls the rest. Suddenly, as if inventing a new reality, a man in a business suit and tie struts out of the wings over to him.

“Ari,” he says contemplatively, as if he knows Ari well, “you missed your mark. Once the guy hits you in the face, you have to fall to the left, not the right. Otherwise, we can’t get a good shot of the blood spurting and the attacker can’t easily kick the bootie into your face. We’ll need another take for this.”

As soon as these words are uttered, Ari arises unharmed, the blood caking his face removed with a swipe or two of tissue, a girl hovering beside him with spray and cloth. He leans against the bars of one of the cells smiling to himself, for after all, this is the life he is familiar with and which he handles virtually every day.

Beginning with the walk towards his cell, the scene is repeated. This time, when Ari is attacked, he falls to the left, squeezing the tube of ketchup onto his face and temple.

Now he recalls what was to follow. In the yard during an exercise break, he was to catch up with a burly inmate named Laurindo. Laurindo was a Hispanic of great size and girth who spent most of his time in prison lifting weights and, on occasion, a prisoner or two. It was said he could bench-press eight hundred pounds. Ari catches up with the half-naked Laurindo and stands behind the man who is reclining as he lifts an enormous dumbbell over his head.

“I’d like to hire you,” Ari says.

Laurindo lowers the weight onto the support racks. “Bueno,” he says loudly, now grinning, you’re the guy they beat the crap out of.” He leans forward to towel off.

“Yes,” Ari admits, scratching his chin, “I’m that guy.”

“They did a bad job of it,” Laurindo says, sitting up and caking his hands with chalk. “You can still walk.”

“But it was painful,” Ari replies, “and I don’t want it to happen again. I don’t even know why they did it.”

“To show you that money don’t buy everything,” Laurindo grunts, and now stands up towering over Ari.

“I’d like to hire you to protect me,” he says, looking into the hovering face of Laurindo.

“I could use some bread, Laurindo muses, “but even more I could use several cartons of ciggies.”

“Deal,” Ari replies, and puts his little hand into the giant mitt in front of him.

“Deal,” Laurindo mutters. “You let it be known who is watching over you like some little fairy godmother,” he laughs, “and I promise you’ll be safe.”

With the incredulous mental image of Laurindo as a fairy godmother, they both sit down cackling.

Now the director springs forward again, gliding the few yards that separate them. “That’s good”, he addresses both of them. “But Laurindo, I wish you’d flex your muscles a little more, maybe strut like a rooster, because those are the flesh notes of character that really govern this scene.”

“Do you want to do this again?” Laurindo asks.

“After lunch,” the director replies. “Think about how amazing you look with your muscles rippling. Don’t hide your greatest asset,” he adds.

16. Penny Devises A Cunning Plan

“Now how do you hope to do that?” Ari asks.

Penny turns towards him. “I’ve been poking around the operating theatre from day one. I’m just nosey,” she adds. “There’s surgery taking place this afternoon after lunch, and then we’ll have maybe five minutes to pull it off.”

Ari appears unconvinced. “I don’t want to get into trouble,” he says.

Kissing him on the cheek, Penny whispers in his ear. “If you’re afraid, I’ll get somebody else to pull the caper.”

“Who said I was afraid?” Ari asks puffing himself up.

“Good man,” Penny says, taking his hand in hers. We’ll meet in my room after lunch.”

At the appointed time, Ari slides into Penny’s room.

“You ready?” Penny asks Ari.

Ari hesitates. “For what?”

“The caper,” Penny says, exasperated. “You agreed to it”.

“The caper! Oh, I couldn’t do that,” Ari says. “I’d be much too much afraid.”

“I understand,” Penny replies softly.

“What caper is it?” Ari asks timidly.

“Obtaining a surgical knife to undo the chips in our arms.”

“Oh,” Ari says. “That would seem to be a job more suited for somebody like Paul. He’s good at obtaining things that don’t belong to him. But I’m coming with you. In case something happens, I’ll be available to help.”

She also shrugs. “We better go.”

Leaving quietly, they climb the stairs to the second floor, Ari somewhat out of breath as they mount to the landing

“A good-looking spot,” Ari says.

In the operating theatre, they see a surgeon removing his mask gingerly, disrobing, then washing his hands. In a moment, he quits the area. Ari and Penny slip into the theatre. It takes but a moment for Penny to locate a drawer in a corner of the room. Pulling it out deftly, she grabs a small surgical knife, holds it up for Ari to see.

“That should do,” Ari whispers. He pockets the knife, and turns to leave just as a nurse enters the theatre.

“Mais qu’est-ce que vous faites ici?” The nurse asks, astonished.

“Nous ne parlons pas francais,” Ari responds in perfect French.

Confused, the nurse says in English: “What do you do here?”

“We are looking for the bathroom.”

“What is zis? she demands with a strong French accent.

“Les toilettes,” Ari says. “Nous cherchons les toilettes.”

“Ah,” the nurse replies, now relaxing and smiling. Points them down the corridor to a door on the right.

“That was a bit too close,” Ari says, fanning himself with a sleeve. Penny looks over at him, sees his face is flushed. “Your French is useful. You speak it well.”

“I don’t speak French,” Ari replies, chalking up his responses in French to blind luck.

“Coulda fooled me,” Penny smiles.

“Heah, we did it,” Ari says to Penny.

“I never doubted you,” Penny replies.

“I wasn’t sure I could manage,” Ari says. “Truthfully, we almost did not.” He turns, sees the bed and sits on it ready to disrobe.

“No,” Penny says to him, gently. “Your room is down the hall. We’ll go there together.”

“Yes,” he says,” I am quite tired. And I wish I spoke French. That would have eased the situation when we were confronted by the nurse.”

Penny, following Ari down the hallway, is carrying with her several bandages, band aids and creams. “Now,” she says as they enter Ari’s room, “we do the hard part.”

“Are you sure you can do this without severing an artery?” Ari asks.

“Of course,” she says, but my hand isn’t as steady as it once was. Anyway, you have no artery on your upper arm.” She hesitates for a moment. “Of course, I’ll do it.”

Ari is on the bed, his face ensconced in a pillow. He lifts his head. “Do what?”

“Cut the chips out of our arms,” Penny says to him, handing him the knife.

“You sure you want me doing this ? I do have trembly moments in my hands, you know.”

“I’ll show you everything you need to know,” Penny responds. She takes the knife and holds it on Ari’s upper arm. “Ari, roll up your sleeve. Not that one, you idiot, she says, the one where I’m holding the knife.”

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Ari crimsons and rolls up his sleeve. Penny finds the exact spot. “You can see the remnant of a scar,” she says. “That is where they implanted it. All right, Ari, you better look away.”

“I’m not a child,” Ari huffs.” I can manage this quite well. Just don’t slip.”

“It will sting just a bit, Penny warns nervously. Hovering over the spot, she marks it with a pen, then advances with the surgical instrument and cuts into Ari’s skin.

“Shit,” Ari exclaims, and jumps up.

“Shhh,” Penny whispers to him, and pushes him down by his shoulder. “Quiet now.”

“I’m bleeding like a pig,” Ari bellows.

“Not so loud,” Penny cautions him. “You’ll bring in a nurse and pigs don’t bleed that much anyway.” She staunches the blood momentarily before she digs deeper into his arm. She notices ringlets of sweat forming on Ari’s face. In a moment, she yanks out the chip. “Got the fucker,” she says. Ari looks comatose. He gets back onto the bed and lies down whimpering.

“Put your finger on this,” Penny says to Ari, placing a bandage over the wound.

“That really hurt,” Ari protests.

“You’re a child,” Penny cries. “A child!”

“We’ll see how well you do in a moment,” Ari responds between clenched teeth.

Ari, in his turn, swabs her arm with alcohol, locates the scar remnant, points it out and plants the blade into Penny’s flesh. She groans slightly as she begins to spurt blood. “Don’t stop,” she says, turning to look at Ari’s handiwork. You have to dig deeper to find it. Ari looks at her as if she were inviting him to a funeral, wipes the sweat from his brow, and cuts deeper into the wound until he locates the chip. “Found it,” he says without triumph in his voice. “But I don’t know whether I can pull the thing out.”

“Why not?”

“It’s gotta hurt like a son of a bitch.”

“I can handle it,” Penny says quietly. “Just do it while I still have courage.”

Ari kisses her on the mouth while pulling out the chip. He hands it to Penny.

“Pretty little things,” Ari remarks.

“Let’s keep the chips,” Penny exclaims. “We’ll hide them in this room so that if they search for us, they will think we are still in the Institute.”

“Yeah, but the nurses will see the wounds,” Ari worries.

“Not if you put on a long sleeve shirt,” Penny laughs. “But you have to be quiet about it. Give me your word you are not going to boast about what we did here tonight. Tomorrow morning, we’ll get Bertrand to take us into town and then we’ll catch the fast train to Paris.”

The following morning, Bertrand drives them into town with his usual warning.

“Don’t stray,” he scolds them, his finger wagging. They walk quickly to the train station and, almost at once, the TGV roars onto the quai in front of them. Ari slumps back into a comfortable seat. Glum, out of sorts, he has not said a word in several hours.”

“What’s wrong with you?” Penny asks him finally.

“I’m having a real problem,” Ari responds. “Actually, a series of problems. I noticed the other day that at dinner I could hardly smell the food in front of me”.

“Clinic food isn’t that aromatic, even though it’s French,” Penny jokes.

He pulls away from her. “Also my vision isn’t as good as it has been in the past. Especially my depth perception. I look at something. I believe it is a dog, but when I get closer to it, I can finally see it’s a brown bench. Also, my hearing is slipping away. I have to strain to hear everything on the TV.”

“You’re an old man,” Penny says not unsympathetically. “What did you expect?”

He turns towards her almost angrily. “But in my dreams, all my senses have been heightened. I smell flowers which I could barely smell before. I hear someone speaking to me even at a distance quite perfectly, and so on. I see exceptionally well in my dreams, almost too well, for I can bring myself into a scene as if I had zoom ability in my power.”

Penny sighs. “Then it must be the medication. It gives with one hand but life takes with the other. The bright side,” she goes on, “is that you have now left the Institute and you won’t be downing their meds again.”

“Is that the bright side?” Ari asks, shading his eyes with a hand. “I’m tired now,” he continues. “I think I should take a nap.”

Penny takes Ari’s arm and places her head on it. “Mind if I join you?” But before she turns to look for a response, she can already hear Ari’s belabored breathing as he declines into a profound sleep. His eyes are fluttering, and it seems clear that he is already in a dream-state.

“All of life is a preparation for death,” the Rabbi intones. The rabbi is a man of some fifty years with a short beard and mustache bordering on the grey. Around his shoulders, he bears a linen shawl, and on his head, a yamakah. “And what better preparation is there than sleep itself? Sleep is the rehearsal that one commits to every night for the final, endless sleep. What concern do you have?”

Pau finds himself in a chamber with the Rabbi. He fidgets in his seat. “I don’t believe in an afterlife,” he confides to the rabbi. I don’t know why there is any reason to worry about morality on earth. What is bad, what is good, if there is no incentive to behave properly?”

Rabbi Shelem coughs. “No incentive? There are moral imperatives whether God exists or not. You can’t just behave like a savage because you have beliefs that differ from those of religion.”

“All right, then. We just want to keep civilization unconcerned and happy,” Paul replies. He twists his tie to one side and loosens it. “But why write music, novels, poetry. Commit to art when it is all transitory? Look at the stars…they are not judges. No Solomon sitting on high. They are the same accidents that sprang from the Big Bang as our little Earth. All of it is random, thus meaningless. We enjoy music but it is enjoyment in the now. How long will the greatest of our composers or writers survive? Shakespeare? Only as long as we can decipher his language, and that is already suspect. If and when the cosmos explodes, or an asteroid smacks us in the gut, what then of Mozart or Jesus? Their randomness becomes obvious, although a trifle late.”

“All of this, whatever its truth, does not absolve you from living a good and useful life,” the Rabbi intones. “You do not live alone in this world teeming with people.” The Rabbi is now poking Ari in the ribs…not, not the Rabbi. It is Penny.

“Time to go,” she whispers to him. “Wake up. We are coming into the Gare.”

In the cab, she instructs the driver to ferry them to the Marais where she knows a hotel. A semi-luxurious hotel named after La Rochefoucauld. Each room contains walls full of aphorisms and maxims written by the 17th century writer. “Self-love is the greatest flatterer of all,” Penny translates. And then one more which makes her smile. “We all have enough strength to endure the troubles of others.” So true, so true! “We’ll camp here tonight. Tomorrow we need to go to the Rue Chauchat where I have a friend who may be able to shelter us, someone unknown to the clinic.”

“I’m hungry,” Ari says. So, they go out into the Marais, locate a restaurant which specializes in muscles, a favorite of Penny’s. Ari orders a choucroute and when he is asked about it, describes it perfectly. Penny orders a liter of wine. Ari notices her for the first time as if his vision had left a cloud and was settling onto this little piece of earth. She looks quite splendid, he thinks, in her little pink skirt and blue top, her grey hair coiffed tightly about her head, eyes flashing. He looks into those eyes even as night descends onto the town.

“You are a special person,” he says to her quietly.

Taking his hand in hers, she lifts it to her lips. “I’m fond of you as well,” she answers. Is her face flushing? It is less wan as the evening unfolds. She seems younger to Ari and somehow less bold. Simply a slender, small woman, all but bent over by the weight of time, in the company of a man with whom she feels congruent. After a time, when the wine is no more, Ari becomes quite vocal.

“You asked about women in my life,” he says to Penny. “There is, of course, Lilou, the woman who came to the Institute pretending to be someone named Maddie.

“She was a manager in the Dylon Investment firm, and I was taking an interview. Once I had the job, I would be reporting to her. As soon as I saw her, my heart swelled. Resplendent in a very brightly colored dress, spring colors, her waist delineated from the rest of her frame, her voice deliciously musical, her face the sort of pretty that one sees in magazines. She always wore a deep red lipstick onto full red lips. This provided an invitation, a magnet to her mouth,” he adds, smacking his own. “Yes, a magnet. But there was one thing unusual about her. She lacked an arm. Her right arm was missing and, in its stead, there was a small flipper. She had been a thalidomide baby.”

“Poor woman,” Penny sympathized.

“Not really,” Ari replies, sipping from his water glass. “After a while you did not notice that there was anything imperfect about this woman. She never hid the lack of an arm, and maybe it was because she was so frank about her imperfection that, after a while, you no longer noticed it.”

“Unusually clever of her.”

“But it never seemed an intentional cleverness. At any rate, after about the third week of working with her, I asked her to have a cup of coffee with me. There, in a café, she told me about herself. Divorced, she said, with two children. She was Canadian and had been a journalist before coming to the States with her soon to be ex-husband. We hit it off. She was charming. Unusual in her intelligence and able to make me feel cared for, warm.”

“So, you went out after that.”

“Yes, several times. At first to restaurants, then to movies. Then, after several weeks of seeing one another, we were invited to a party in Atlanta, north of the perimeter, someone’s home. You know Atlanta is a city of trees, and most lots are full of them. Mainly pines, but also some hardwoods. We were standing on a rear porch in this party drinking gin and tonics and looking out over the back yard into the vegetation. Someone near us began to talk about tree frogs, and I insisted that there is no such thing, but I was wrong. There are tree frogs, as I found out to my embarrassment.”

Penny seems amused. “Frogs that live in trees?”

“Lilou knew about them and was quite happy she had won the argument. But soon afterwards, she walked away and, after a time, I saw her with a bearded man, the host of the party, I think, inside the house in the living room, in intense conversation. Of course, these were friends of hers, and she knew many of the guests at the party while I knew no one. I thought little about this until later, after someone had finished playing a jazz guitar, I saw her shape move out of the living room. I followed intuitively. It led into the kitchen where she was standing with another man, a man wearing blue spandex shorts and a red shirt, whose hands were slipping into her blouse. She, Lilou, was looking into the man’s eyes while he was feeling her up. I watched this moment unbelievingly, because where I come from, this is really crass behavior. So, I coughed and they both looked up, his hand fumbling out of her blouse, and she, her eyes widening, slid down from the kitchen table onto her feet smiling in my direction. She never skipped a beat! But something had happened in our relationship, something which I felt I could not pass by. I was angry, jealous and upset. I did not say another word to her and left. Yes, I left without her. It was entirely clear to me that she had ample opportunity to get a ride home, yes, to her home or someone else’s.

“You felt betrayed.”

“We never formally discussed what we were to one another. Yet it seemed to me that we were a couple. We had been dating for some time, and if she wanted to change that status, she had to say so. Then I wouldn’t have cared less about hands down the top of her dress.”

“But this could have been the end to your relationship.”

“No,” Ari protests. “Who knew? It turned out to be not the end, but a beginning. We seemed to be meeting in lots of places. Accidentally. Maybe scripted.”

“How do you mean scripted?

“Sometimes I felt as if I were in a theatre piece, someone directing us how to stand and where to go and how to speak to one another, and even how to accent certain words as we spoke.”

“Still, you were through with her after the party, weren’t you?”

“I thought so,” Ari goes on, “and yet soon she inveigled herself back into my affections. One evening, once classes were finished, she whispered in my ear that we should go to her place in Virginia Highlands and make love. This was bizarre. I mean how she said it was strange, because she whispered it into my ear, stopped, looked around. A man spoke to her from a distance, someone I could not see. So, she coughed and then repeated the same words into my ear. I wasn’t sure what to do. I no longer trusted her. This man from afar could have been another lover. Yet I was attracted to her and, like most men, I make decisions below the belt, rarely above it. Until this time, for reasons I didn’t really understand, we had never made love. Partially because I was uncertain how the lack of an arm, her flipper, might intervene between us and our enjoyment. But it really didn’t. We stopped at a nearby taqueria, had a bite, chimichangas as I remember, sipped a couple of Dos Equis, then walked around the corner to her house. A two-story blue house, hardly conspicuous or special in any manner. We entered quietly, as she asked of me. “Kids are already asleep,” she said. A nanny who was there soon left as soon as she saw us. We climbed up the stairs to her bedroom and, in a moment, Lilou had stripped down to her undies. Then something strange occurred. A voice bade her do it again slower. I had no idea where the voice came from and if a stranger was in the house. Around me there was a bunch of photographic equipment, but I was accustomed to that because it seemed to exist everywhere I went. It’s part and parcel of life, isn’t it, this technical paraphernalia? At first, I questioned how it was possible to repeat a love scene without spoiling the sentiment that gave rise to it, but after a time, accepted it as my special reality, for it was something which I had to endure again and again. Here I was looking around for the body that had requested a re-take, but Lilou simply came over to me, put a finger on my lips, dressed, left, re-entered the bedroom and, this time, undid herself slower, languorously. And so we started to make love, although in bed under the sheets, as I reached between her legs, she pushed my hand away. Roughly. And I remember speaking to her in words which could not have issued from me, words which were foreign and which I felt I had memorized somewhere and just spoken because it was expected. She responded in kind. We were now kissing and hugging, then suddenly to her great alarm, her eyes ballooning, I slipped inside of her, her eyes now bigger than I had ever before seen, gray eyes as big as an owl’s, but she did not move, did not speak, did not breathe. I thought she may have heard another voice in the bedroom, but I never heard anything. Lights suddenly extinguished and we were alone in bed together.

The man with the commanding voice suddenly appeared in great haste. Clearly concerned about Lilou. “Are you all right?” he asked her. Before she could reply, he turned to me and said: “You great buffoon! The scene is make-believe. You weren’t supposed to fuck her for real. Can we repeat it, this time without the boner?”

17.La Rue Chauchat

In the morning, a taxi takes them on a rickety course to the rue Chauchat where lives an old friend of Penny. There is a large, heavy wooden oak door, several hundred years old, a large brass knocker in its center now blackened after many decades. When the door opens, it reveals an old man, peering out from a crack, his face somber, wrinkled, a sad face on which life has transcribed many cares.

“Jean!” Penny exclaims.

“Ah, c’est toi, Penny, enfin, c’est toi.” He opens the door, his curved body straightens slightly to embrace her.

“Jean Chevier,” Penny introduces us.

“When you called me,” Jean says, holding Penny’s hand while leading them into a parlor, I could not believe that you would actually come.” He speaks a distinguished English with but a faint French accent.

They drink coffee and eat tartes tatin while Penny explains their situation. She tells Jean how they have escaped from the clinic in Nancy, and why she believes the clinic will dispatch agents to bring them back.

“It is of no concern,” Jean replies, clasping his hands together, lips crisping into Gallic skepticism. “They will not find you here. You shall stay in the back area of this apartment. It is quite large by Parisian standards. It is where my children lived when they were little. Plenty of space and I am happy for the company.”

He tells them that his wife died several years back, and that his three children have left France to seek their fortune abroad. After a time, his speech slows, his throat grows raspy as if the effort of so much conversation has drained him.

“We will leave you now to take a siesta in the bedrooms,” Penny says.

“Yes,” Jean says, “you must be tired after your escape from Nancy. He takes Ari’s hand. “I have a nice, quiet room for you, my child,” he says, as if Ari were but a youngster. Ari looks back quizzically at Penny who blows him a laughing kiss.

A very old red, blue and gray runner leads the way into the back bedroom. A simple, yet large bed with walnut posts and, over the bed, a small crucifix on a wall which, at one time, must have been white but now has faded into a dark cream color. There are two Napoleon III night tables, one on each side of the bed. Against a wall, an eighteenth-century armoire in rosewood and mahogany. The wood has darkened it so much, it is not easy for Penny to identify it. An adjoining bathroom, quite simple with a commode, a shower stall with a simple, beige vinyl curtain. She looks at the appliances that are ancient, perhaps not refurbished or replaced in thirty years or more.

In the other room, as they unpack luggage, Penny describes her relationship with Jean. “We are near the Bourse of France,” Penny begins, “where Jean worked most of his life. He amassed a tidy sum which, if I remember correctly, he gave mainly to his children. I met him on an airplane some twenty years ago. We hit it off. He was charming, intelligent and very French. Need I say more?”

“Please do,” Ari prompts her.

Penny looks at him from the other side of the bed, pouting. “You aren’t even jealous that we are in the house of a man with whom I had an intimate relationship?”

Taken aback by the comment, Ari remains quiet. In fact, he is not jealous. Whatever his relationship with Penny, it doesn’t have to do with sex and certainly not, control.

“You disappoint me,” Penny adds. “Show a little anger, spunk. Break glass. Throw your wallet at me. Tell me that I am a cheap slut.”

“I doubt you are cheap,” Ari replies, turning away, but congratulating himself on his response. A few minutes pass. He is pretending to fall asleep. In fact, he lapses into that in-between state between awareness and unconsciousness where one has confusing sensations on the cliff to sleep.

After a time, he is startled once again by the vision which fills out in his brain. On a hardwood floor, a yellow floor, he can make out a body. The body of a woman. He strains but he cannot see her face, nor can he see enough of her body to guess who she may be. Next to the woman, a pair of scant panties with black trim. Blood stained. Dried blood. A knife on the floor, a large kitchen knife with a black handle and serrated edge. Straining to look up, he sees the shadow of a figure. Is it me? he asks himself startled by the very question, but he does not believe so. Still, it is a man, a man with a similar body type. He peers at one of the man’s hands. After a few moments, the disturbing image ceases, seeps out of his brain, and he slips into a lower level of sleep. In a few moments, Penny begins to doze as well.

Exhausted from the journey, but perhaps even more so from the mental exertion in fleeing the clinic, Ari descends into a slumber that lasts from early evening into the following morning. Still awake, Penny slips a cover over him and lets him sleep. In the late afternoon, she finds Jean creating a blanquette de veau.

“Put on an apron,” he says. “You can chop vegetables.”

“Were you able to find out anything about the Pharynx Corporation?” She asks him, as she begins to work.

“After your phone call,” he replies without looking up from his veal, “I did some research. There is not much to know,” he adds, “spooning the gravy out of the blanquette. They have their headquarters outside Paris at La Defense, quite a huge building befitting such a large corporation. But I learned nothing about their practices, even though I inquired from the drug analyst at the Bourse who covers their activities. He said the drug for the mad cow is in early stages, and no one knows a great deal as to how it works or its efficacy. You may have to go there yourselves to find out more.”

“But this is exactly what I have in mind,” Penny remarks.

18.Maddie Describes Her Bond with Paul

Lounging on the veranda of the Institute, Maddie and Morris sit together in close conversation. The weather has warmed considerably, and Maddie is wearing a paisley dress with a beige cardigan. Morris, she says to herself, always looks the same. Often in white jeans without a belt wearing a navy, blue shirt. Morris is puffing on a cigar blowing smoke rings, now leans back snuggly into his plastic chair.

“Now could this happen?” Maddie asks in an irritated tone.

Puffing again on his cigar, he lays it down onto an ashtray on a reticulated, glass table. “Clearly, they were intent on getting the hell out of here,” he remarks casually.

“And the embedded chips?”

“Surgically removed, I suppose,” he says with a thin smile. “Not so hard to do, if a bit painful. They must have been desperate to leave,” he emphasizes.

“I wouldn’t put it past Paul to carry off this kind of caper,” Maddie remarks almost admiringly, “and yet what good will it do them?”

Closing the lapels of his jacket about his throat, Morris leans forward. “I was led to believe that the medicine would keep them subdued. The opposite seems to have happened. A problem with such a new drug, I gather. Just because mice become soporific doesn’t mean that it transfers to humans.

“So, what now?”

“We are looking for them. You have no idea where they might be hiding? We traced them as far as the TGV to Paris.”

Shaking her curls, Maddie looks down. “It must be Penny leading the charge,” she says at length. “If it’s Ari who is identifying with her rather than Paul, then I’m not sure he grasps the language, nor would he have the resources to live there.”

“I agree,” Morris concurs. “It’s Penny, and we have looked through her past contacts to the degree that it is possible, but only the Pharynx Corp has the wherewithal to uncover more. They eventually will turn up something.”

“And then what?” Maddie says, sipping on a hot chocolate.

“Then we bring them back. They have to undergo the full treatment. We can’t afford two subjects escaping months before the end.”

“And what exactly is the full treatment?”

Morris clears this throat, then turns and spits onto the grass. “They are going to die of course,” he says coldly, if simply. “There’s no stopping that outcome for both of them. But we need to witness the circumstances, the moments leading up to their death. We need to determine how well the drug works, if it works at all. To the very conclusion of this affair,” he goes on.” If it’s agony at the end, we need to be there to annotate it and to witness it.”

Maddie laughs. “Business as usual, even to the grave,” she remarks in a clear voice.

He looks up at her, his lips spreading into a grin “Yes, he agrees. Business as usual. I don’t need to remind you that we are both beholden to the corporation. We simply do what is asked of us.”

“But I have more than a monetary interest in our patient,” Maddie says. “I have unfinished business with Paul, and I expect, before he dies, I will have concluded my business. Then I’ll move on.”

Morris looks at her curiously. “Tell me why you are so ferociously intent on watching, even spurring, your ex to his death. What did he do to you?”

She gasps, coughs, leans forward clearing her throat. “I’ll tell you just a bit of what he did,” she says confidentially.

“Besides dumping you” Morris intervenes almost chuckling.

“Not funny,” she corrects him. “Not funny at all.”

“Tell me then.”

“I may need a real drink to get through this,” she says, but she is not smiling. She turns to the house phone and presses a button. After a moment, Bertrand appears. They send him scurrying for a scotch and soda.

“You may know some of this story already.”

“Go on,” Morris insists.

“Not exactly sure where to start,” Maddie begins. “You may know that Paul had bought himself a luxury apartment on Madison and 72nd Street. A brownstone with an upstairs he used for a bedroom. The downstairs had a kitchen and parlor, and further down, a finished basement for storage. From the upstairs, you could look into the courtyard where two young and attractive women sunned themselves during the summer, mainly on weekends. They were models, not the high-class runway type, but girls who had pretty hands or faces and decent breasts. They enjoyed flaunting their tits,” she adds. “Paul knew them. Sunday afternoons, often after taking a nap, he would peer down from his window to watch them sunbathing, and wave at them. Lecherously. A breast man, he called himself, an enthusiast of perfect orbs. Occasionally, the girls would tuck in their perfections, come up and have a drink. But I digress.”

Bertrand now arrives with the scotch which he serves with a flourish, a small towel on his arm with which he gently wipes the stem of the glass containing the scotch.

“We were an item then,” Maddie goes on as she sees Bertrand retreating. “We had met on the set of Babylon Revisited. My role, at least early in the show, was to serve as mistress, wife, confidant to Paul’s character as Ari Bloom. In that role, I played Lilou, a one-armed slut from Canada. Ari was created as an agreeable, if often misguided financier. The story had him manipulating insider trading for which he was sent to jail. As the plot developed month after month, year after year, I cheated on him, he cheated on me. At one time, I slit my wrists and died but was resurrected after an outcry from the viewing public which enjoyed my role too much to abide my disappearance. Paul was also killed by a jealous lover of mine in a later episode. That is, Ari Bloom was killed, but also found rebirth when ratings tumbled. So, we were in lots of clinches together on the set in and out of bed, in telephone booths, participating in the mile high club, and the like. I began to care for Paul, although from the very first I sensed that he had a hard edge. Frankly, the way he talked about people made you want to throw up. He had no use for them except as he used them. Still, the very bad boy that he was appealed to me at first. We dated. We went back to his apartment and made love in his bedroom. He was randy, gifted at fucking. Clearly, he had had many, many experiences, and we made love often several times in an afternoon or evening.

Some months into our relationship, he sounded me out whether I had ever had sex with a woman. I said I had one experience in high school. He asked me whether I enjoyed it. I said I did, but it was more innocent than really sexual. He smiled lecherously, suggested that we ask the two models below to join us in our sex-capades. I was shocked. Up to that time, Paul had never shown any interest in deviancy, so the suggestion really caught me off guard. I said no. Firmly.

After a time, he took me to a Video X shop to shop for toys. I had never before been in one of those shops, but I confess I had always had some curiosity as to what they were like, and I followed him in there. Two young Hispanic boys were looking at magazines, and an older man who, as soon as I entered, wouldn’t stop peering at me above his spectacles. His staring unnerved me. I asked Paul to leave, but he shushed me, told me that I was being insensitive and lacked any sense of adventure, and that he needed time to find the right toys and videos. “I’m doing this for us,” he said with a straight face, so I shut up and turned away from the old man who was edging closer to me all the time.

After a while, I became freaked out and I excused myself. I said I would wait outside. Paul nodded and replied that he only needed a few more minutes to look over an array of dildos.

“Outside, I lit a cigarette. The day was cool, sunny, nice. But then the old man exited the shop and walked over to me. I don’t remember much about him except that he had a prominent jaw and that he never stopped smiling. He had one lower tooth that leaned out. He asked me how I was doing, and I said fine. Then he asked me whether he could have one of my cigarettes, and I said fine and gave him one. I had a lighter and lit the cigarette, and he cupped his hands around mine. I shuddered, and then he asked me whether the man I was with was my husband. I said stupidly that he was not. Then he looked up, stopped smiling and asked me whether I would like to fuck. By then, I had lost my composure entirely, and began to run down the street in my heels. The man did not follow me. But I was so scared that I continued to run for several minutes until a car caught up with me, and I did not know whether the car belonged to the old man or to Paul.”

“Where are you going?” Paul shouted at me with irritation. He slowed the car. “Get in.”

I explained what had happened, but he looked straight ahead and did not reply. I thought he could have apologized, but he didn’t say a word. Instead, he talked about the items he had purchased, items, he said, he had been looking for, and thought we should now return to his apartment and try them out. I was so unnerved by the incident in the parking lot, I felt faint and wasn’t sure what I was doing. I certainly did not feel in the mood. But once we got to his apartment, Paul took me by my shoulders, pressed me against the wall, and kissed me hard. I wanted to say something, but my voice was smothered against his face. Next, he reached under my dress and pulled down my panties. The next thing I knew he was sliding into me painfully. I shrieked, and he put his hands around my neck and started squeezing to shut me up, I thought, although later he explained this was a way to heighten orgasms. I did shut up and fell to the ground. Paul was on top of me, inside me, before I lost consciousness. When I came to, we were in his basement where he had carried me. I was now completely naked and he had strung me up with ropes to a pipe in the basement, my arms outstretched and bound. For the next several hours, he had his way with me. Not only with his mouth, his hands and his member, but with dildos, prods, a broom stick, Lord knows what. I was sore, angry and upset. Still. he refused to stop. After a while, the models came running downstairs cavorting and, as soon as they saw me, removed their clothes and began to play by running their nails along my body. Occasionally, Paul would instruct them what to do and, if I resisted, he would hit me with a broom just hard enough so that I feared it. Occasionally he would have sex with the models. Once, he fell asleep as they were fondling and probing me. I shouted only once, but he woke up. This pissed him off and he hit me with a broom so hard that I was afraid to speak afterwards. Hours passed this way. I fell asleep. When I awakened, the models were gone. So was Paul. After another half hour, he came downstairs and unbound me. Asked me whether I had a good time. Seriously, he asked me whether I had a ‘good time’. That is what he wanted to know. I said nothing, got dressed, and left.

“Wow!” Morris says at last. “This could have been the end of you and Paul.”

“I wish it had been,” Maddie replied ruefully. “Yes, for a time, outside of work, I would not speak to him. Angry, hurt, injured emotionally, drained. But after a time, after several weeks, I started remembering the experience in a whole new light. I would wake up with it in my mouth, so to speak. Part of me, the incident hung everywhere. It reminded me of how sheltered I had been, and that even though the event had been unpleasant, it felt magical because it was unexpected, new, different, exciting even. Yes, exciting, I had to admit, but at that moment, still could not quite bring myself to relish it. Maybe I was simply rationalizing the experience. I cannot say even to this day. And yet, my memory of the event changed so that it was not entirely disturbing or painful. To the contrary, some of it seemed as if it had happened in a fantasy life, and I treasured that because I had never before had any experience like it.”

“After a while, I took up with Paul again. I felt as if I had to, that his life compelled my life to blend with his. An incomprehensible magnet! Still, I made him promise that he would not see the models again, nor would he have any experiences with girls outside of our relationship. Paul agreed to this at once, and I was gullible enough to trust him. He said he had missed me and had been unable to sleep. So, we were together once more, and Paul was true to his word. He paid attention to me, he never again invited the models to come up. We made love often, sometimes using toys, sometimes not. It felt normal and good. In the meanwhile, the series was receiving some of its best ratings.

One day, he asked me to marry him.

I said yes.

The whole cast and crew of Babylon Revisited attended. We married in a Catholic church. I wore a white dress. You know, a symbol of purity. The first marriage for either of us despite our somewhat advanced age. The reception was held at Le Cirque, paid for and hosted by the producers of the show. We were very much in love. I thought we were very much in love.

He took me to the Bahamas, to a resort, for our honeymoon. Pricey place. You couldn’t find food outside of the resort unless you walked a couple of miles. Bananas cost $4.00 a piece, just as one example. We had a luxury apartment facing the ocean at the top of the hotel. Mornings, we would sit out on the balcony with our coffee and watch a dolphin show in the distance. Cruise ships sailed in and parked along a dock, and we would watch with binoculars as passengers disembarked.

One morning, we went out on a skiff to go scuba diving. Neither of us had done this before. Once we were out to sea, the skiff stopped. We were laden with equipment, breathing apparatus, fins and the like, and went overboard. For about twenty minutes, we explored the underneath of reefs, watched fish of all stripes and sizes glide by us. Suddenly a much larger fish came into view. A shark! He had seen us and was moving towards us rapidly. Paul pulled out of his position, but I got tangled in a rope and could not free myself to move upwards towards the surface. All this time, the shark was approaching. I looked around for Paul but he had disappeared. As the shark glided effortlessly towards me, now but a few feet away, I simply froze. Did not move. Nor breathe. The shark glided right by me and sailed quickly out of sight. In another moment, the captain of the skiff had freed me and yanked me up. On board, I bent over and threw up. When I stopped heaving, I looked up to see Paul resting in a lounge chair in the back of the boat draining a coke. He was not even looking in my direction. And when I asked whether he thought to help me to the surface as the shark approached, he simply shrugged. “I knew you could do it on your own,” he replied.

“Sounds like you married a prick,” Morris says.

“Yes,” Maddie replies. “Silly me, I still loved him. The very nonchalance of his character, the possibility that he could devise some new magic before my eyes, captivated me. His hold, his hocus-pocus! An attraction I could not shake. I stayed with him. I knew by then that he was a swine. But something else happened, something considerably more serious than the sexual episode. I have to be in a special and, preferably drunk, state to talk about it. But not tonight,” she adds, pleading fatigue.

19.A Visit to the Pharynx Corporation

In a compartment of the RER train, they zoom up to La Defense, the business area just outside of Paris. Ari is not entirely sure what is going on. He has a metallic taste in his mouth which he cannot shake. Ari turns to Penny. “Why are we doing this? What do you hope to gain?”

“I want to find out as much as we can about the drug they have been giving us. Aren’t you still taking it?”

“More than I care to admit,” Ari says. “I took some with me. I’m afraid to stop it.”

“That’s number one. But aren’t you also curious as to why this corporation has hired Morris to shepherd you from the States to Nancy, and then monitor your vitals, even your dreams, to watch you getting sicker?” With that, she snuggles close to Ari. But the touch of the finger of her hand on his is extremely painful, and he shoots up in his chair.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, alarmed.

“I don’t know,” he replies. “When you touched me, it was as if you had placed acid on my skin.”

“I’m sorry,” she says soothingly, and then brings her lips lightly to his. But as soon as her lips touch his, he cries out in pain. “Please don’t touch me again,” he says to her. “Something is happening here, and I don’t know what it is.”

Penny leans back into her fauteuil, quiet, thoughtful, picks up a magazine from the rack in front of her. The trip, however, is too short for her to read any of the articles.

When they climb out of the train station, they find themselves in the center of a maze of steel and aluminum buildings. In front of them, the entrance to a mammoth building, the entrance of which looks like a praying mantis made of titanium. Another building’s entrance juts out like a sting ray constructed of brushed zinc and copper. With help, they locate the Pharynx Corporation. Its building is a super modern one resembling a spaceship. Enormous, round, white and gray, and completely metallic producing the effect of a rippling sheen. There is a multitude of floors to the structure, each one a complete circle of offices and laboratories.

At the entrance, they walk through a metal detector, and then come to an information booth. Behind a counter, a uniformed man with a black moustache.

“We are inquiring about a specific drug,” Penny says.

“Your names?

“Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Lavern,” she lies.

She is unaware that their photos are taken as soon as they enter the building and have been circulated to several departments. A phone rings, and the guard picks up the receiver, listens, then nods. “Take the elevator to the second floor, room 202, Mme. Lavern. You will be seeing a M. Deveau. He will be able to answer all of your questions.”

“There is something wrong with all of this,” Ari protests, as they step into the elevator. “It is much too easy.”

Smiling, Penny points to the elevator. “Don’t kick luck into the gutter,” she says.

“I still don’t understand why you want to walk into the teeth of this corporation after everything we did to escape it.”

“I want to learn everything I can,” Penny insists. With that, Ari stops struggling to understand, shrugs as the elevator halts on the second floor. It stops virtually in front of the office marked 202. Once inside, they are shown to a comfortable antechamber. Penny notices that there is nothing to read, nothing to look at, no music. The walls are completely bare, totally bland, while lights cast low shadows up to the ceiling. A single staff member, a secretary in a pale sheen dress sits at a wooden counter answering the phone. Momentarily, she bids them enter the door to her right.

“M. Deveau shall see you now.”

An office which surprises both of them. While the outer room is generally colorless, Deveau’s office is a rainbow of color. Walls are painted in brightly hued pastels, frescos of men and women workers, perhaps doctors, some in frocks, attending to microscopes or patients, all of them intent but smiling, dressed in brightly textured laboratory attire. Soft nondescript music is broadcast as an undertone.

“I am Gerard Deveau, a man says in an English learned in the UK, rising to his full height of six feet four inches. A wiry man, with a face in which one can see muscles drawn tight around the smile he offers them. He is dressed in an elegant blue suit, his white shirt starched, topped off with a multi-colored bow tie. Somehow, he seems like a caricature, out of place in this building.

Introductions are made. Deveau offers his hand to Ari. Before he touches the man, Ari is already preparing himself for a shock. He experiences an electric, acid flows through his hand as if he had been burned. Despite the pain, Ari manages not to cry out. Deveau bids them sit around a table. Coffee is brought in by a non-descript worker, one so characterless that he is forgotten at once.

“How may I help you?” Deveau asks pleasantly.

“We’re interested in the work you’re doing to relieve the pain of mad cow disease, the work you are doing to increase life expectancy,” Penny adds. “Will you tell us about this drug and the progress you have made with it?”

“Of course,” Deveau replies. “Before I do, are you asking through curiosity, or is there a more pressing reason for you to learn about our drug?”

For a moment, the question stymies both of them. Before Penny replies, Deveau is pouring them coffee. “It doesn’t matter of course,” he smiles. “We are always pleased that the public takes an interest in our work.””

Now he leans back into his fauteuil, fingers rimming the cup of coffee when he is not sipping. “As you may know, the drug is in a first phase trial, and we are using it on an experimental basis on several patients.”

“But what possible advantage can this drug bring you?” Ari exclaims. “So very few people have this disease.”

“Smart question,” Deveau replies agreeably. “We started with Creutzfeldt-Jacob because it was the most difficult disease, but we believe that if we can make inroads towards a cure, the drug will be efficacious in many other diseases of the brain, perhaps even Alzheimer’s itself. If this is the case, the field opens very wide indeed. We expect there will be hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions of patients to treat, and our investment of well over a billion euros will be rewarded handsomely. In fact, even as we speak, we are testing the drug on other patients who have been affected with brain disorders, not excluding severe memory loss, senility and so on.”

“So how well does the drug work?”

Deveau leans forward, his mouth pursing into a Gallic frown. “It varies some from person to person, disease to disease. We see, however, that it does help people in special ways. Some Alzheimer patients show early signs of remission, a move we would have considered impossible without this treatment. As for Mad Cow, that is another matter entirely. Our success in that area has been limited so far. The drug seems to extend life by a month or so, not insignificant in itself, but more importantly, it is shown to heighten experience through an unusual phenomenon, that of forging brilliant dreams even in people who dream rarely or not at all, and as importantly, these dreams make patients think that they are happening in extended time. So, a dream of an event that may take fifteen minutes in real life, sometimes feels to the dreamer as if he is experiencing the event in real time and, strange, sometimes even considerably longer than real time. Does that help you to understand how the drug works?”

“Yes,” Ari replies. “What happens if a patient begins the treatment and stops?”

“Very quickly, all the benefits of the dream are lost,” Deveau replies. Now, he leans forward again, and stops smiling. “Penny and Ari,” he says, “why are you not at the clinic in the capable hands of our doctors?”

As soon as Deveau recites their names, Ari feels sickened, panicky, lost, very small and very tired. Penny falls back into her chair. “So, you know who we are then,” she murmurs.

“Yes,” Deveau answers. “And you are doing yourselves no favors by resisting our treatment.”

“We were not sure it had any value,” Penny replies, “and the doctors at the clinic would not answer our questions about it.”

“Surely now you have the answers you need.”

“Yes,” Penny says. “Thanks to you,” She says this in a rather rote fashion, somewhat reassured by Deveau’s conviction that the drug is efficacious, but not entirely certain whether to believe Deveau himself. “M. Bloom also has a question about a man named Morris whom you hired to accompany him.”

“Yes?”

“What is the point of this man?” Ari asks. “What role does he play in my treatment, if any?”

“We assigned him to assist you,” Deveau says, “as you undergo the treatment. No more, no less. Of course, we recognize that this is an unusual step to take, but on the other hand, the disease in question is unprecedented. Since you are one of our first patients with Mad Cow, we thought it prudent to have you monitored and assisted whenever necessary.”

“You are paying him.” Ari says.

“Yes,” Deveau replies.

“A lot?”

“You need to ask Morris this question,” Deveau says smiling.

“And what is the point of assigning a man to look after me as if you thought I actually needed it….?”

Deveau turns to Penny with a despairing look in his eyes. “Penny,” he says, “Ari appears exhausted from his voyage. Maybe it is time to take him back to the Institute.”

Appearing satisfied, Penny hurriedly rises to shake Deveau’s hand. “We will take the necessary steps,” she assures him.

“You as well, Ari?”

“Yes,” Ari replies, his queasiness leaving him slowly. “Yes.”

“I can lend you any assistance you require,” Deveau says.

“Not necessary,” Penny replies.

“Good,” Deveau says, his tight face relaxing. “I’ll let the Institute know that you are on the way home. But if you need anything, don’t hesitate to call my office.”

And with that, they leave. As they enter the elevator, Deveau turns to his secretary and says quietly: “Have them followed.”

In the underground station, Penny and Ari await the next RER. The train arrives with a great clatter, stops quickly, emitting a screeching noise. Ari waits for Penny to climb the three steps into the train, but after the first one she loses her footing and falls backward into his outstretched arms. “It must be love,” she smiles. Ari is thinking that if her balance is off, he needs to watch her carefully in the future. He observes her as she carefully hoists herself into the train, and then haunches down.

“And your conclusion is?” he asks her.

“My conclusion? You mean the Deveau meeting…”.

“What do you think he truly said?”

“He said the drug is experimental but that it helps,” she answers.

“Is that what he said?” Ari asks.

“Weren’t you listening?” She asks irritated.

“Of course,” he replies, befuddled. “What exactly did you hear?”

“I heard,” she answers with exasperation, “that we should return to the Institute for treatment.”

“Return to the Institute?” He asks with surprise. He asks it with a small voice as if he were truly fatigued

Penny notices the sodden tone. “Yes,” she says.

“Then we must do so,” he says, his voice trailing off. “What do you think?”

“We do need to talk this out,” she responds firmly, “to understand the consequences. Do we believe Deveau, really? I’m leaning towards trusting him, but not completely. You do know that once we return of our own free will, they have us, that our lives will be circumscribed. There will be no dancing, no restaurants, no museums, no life outside the clinic and a few scattered moments in town.”

“But we shall give ourselves to science,” Ari says somberly. “To help not only ourselves, but others.”

She laughs. “You are an idealist. Then she kisses him on the mouth but this time Ari feels nothing but the warmth and softness of the kiss itself. She jumps back at once. “I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?” Instead of answering, he turns and kisses her fully on the lips. “I guess not,” she adds, smiling, as they near their stop.

20. The Caretakers and Mlle. Alise Gauthier Come to Call

Bickering on the train, they attempt to come to a truce, but cannot.

“If you had done your job,” Maddie fires, her lips curling together, ”they wouldn’t be in Paris.”

Angry, frustrated, Morris strikes back with the irony he considers his chief weapon. “You always claimed that you had him by the seat of his pants, that you could send him spinning in any direction you chose, but that’s clearly false. An older, frumpy woman took him away from you.”

“That’s also false,” she shouts at him with a blistering glance. “He’s sick. He’s not the same man I once knew.”

“Nonetheless,” Morris continues, “you swore that you could reel him in at a moment’s notice. Well, you don’t apparently have the right bait on the line.”

“Because for some demented reason, he has forgotten that he is Paul, that he not only loved me, married me, but claimed that he could not live without me.”

“Whoever he is now,” Morris retorts, “we seem to have lost him.”

“So, you acknowledge your role in this fiasco.”

“Yes,” he assents wearily, “I do. Although I was never much friendly with Paul. I became friends with Ari…although it’s not often reciprocated. He sometimes treats me with suspicion.”

“We’re both hopeless,” Maddie laughs. She straightens her dress and looks out the window as the French countryside zooms by. The TGV is making extraordinary progress and will be at the Gare de l’Est in a few moments,

“Let’s let bygone be bygones,” she says to Morris finally. “We need to work together to corral this guy.”

Nodding in agreement, Morris begins to pull down their luggage from the overhead rack. Outside of the Gare, they wait patiently in a short line for a taxi to take them to La Defense. At the Pharynx Corporation, they are sent immediately to Deveau’s office.

“Just be calm,” Morris says to Maddie, squeezing her arm as they enter the elevator.

“That cuts both ways,” she shoots back. Maddie does not take orders with equanimity.

Deveau sees them at once, offers them a drink which they decline. Instead, Morris takes a cookie from a container on the large mahogany desk. “Are you not on our payroll?” Deveau begins slowly, but with a bite in each syllable. “Do you not receive money from us, Euros, each and every month?” They nod assent. “And is this money not meant for you to ride herd on Ari Bloom or Paul Scudery, whoever this unfortunate wretch truly is, to ascertain that he continues to take his medicine and that he remains in the confines of the hospital? Money for you to transmit complete records of the last months, days and even minutes of his life before this man’s demise? They again nod assent. What am I missing here?” he asks.

“Penelope,” Maddie responds after a short pause, “the woman he is with. She has reached within, and yanked him out of his meek shell, made him somehow more adventuresome. I didn’t know this was possible.”

“It is clear that the drug has contributed to making him more self-aware…of course only temporarily…” Deveau replies. “But the drug is not under attack here. You, however, had the responsibility to make sure he did not stray.”

“Look,” Morris says brushing a crumb from his white cardigan. “I realize that we have let you down, but we know now where he is, don’t we?”

“Thanks to the man who followed them to the rue Chauchat.”

“And if I understand correctly, they are now planning to return to the Institute?”

“That is what they stated,” Deveau responds carefully, “but until we see them there, I wouldn’t rely solely on their word.”

“Then let us seal the deal,”, Maddie says quickly. “We’ll visit their apartment in town and make it easy, even mandatory, for them to return.”

“What do you intend to offer them?”

“First of all, a promise that the drug will extend their lives, but equally important, that we are their friends and are worried sick that they have left the only place on earth that cares for them and can help them.”

“Good,” Deveau replies, admiring the artifice. “Good. For the most part, I don’t like using the human touch as a weapon, but here it may be useful. But no slipups this time, if you understand me. You must do whatever is necessary to have them continue the drug. Penelope as well. If she continues to interfere, we may have to deal with her in a different way.”

Maddie nods assent, although she does not fully grasp the import of these words. Morris, however, is following the thin-lipped logic of M. Deveau to its conclusion, and a shudder runs through him. Just for a moment, then it ceases.

“Of course,” he agrees, pulling himself together. “We must do what is necessary.” As soon as these words escape from his mouth, he regrets saying them.

On another floor, Alise Gauthier is gently removing her white robe, hangs it in the locker by the Toilettes, removes her slippers, and replaces them with the flats she ordinarily wears. Mademoiselle Gauthier is single. She has never married, and she has attained the age of sixty-two without any significant relationship. In truth, she likes men in a physical sense and, occasionally, indulged in a fling, but never one that endured. Once the Monsieur in question became too ardent, she cut if off. She did not trust men. They had disappointed her as a child, both the father she saw rarely, and the uncle who replaced him after his death. Yes, her uncle now her step-father, was someone she feared. A man who had been too inappropriately friendly with her. Rejecting girlish romance, Alise learned to appreciate the sciences, biology, microbiology, subjects which have verifiable conclusions. Eventually, she earned several degrees including an Agrege which led her to her present position with the Pharynx Corporation. Sciences lead to truth unlike the fumbling, bifurcated attention of men which invariably disintegrate into misery.

Somewhere in the south of France, she had a sister whom she rarely saw. They communicated first by letter, later by text or email, rarely speaking to one another on the phone. The very act of communicating with her sister put Alise in a bad mood. Something about the woman rubbed her the wrong way although she could not describe the cause. Perhaps it was her sister’s acquired, phony accent from the Midi, or perhaps the smugness of her voice as it asserted itself again and again.

This day, Mlle. Gauthier hails a taxi outside the corporation headquarters at the stand down the street, a taxi which will take her to the rue Chauchat. For Alise Gauthier has something to say to two people she does not know and has never met. She has learned they are presently bedding down in an apartment on that street. And what she has to impart she believes is something that both people will want to hear.

Now as the day winds down, dusk beginning to filter onto the streets of Paris, Alise Gauthier enters a cab and leans back, studying the architecture of houses in the sixteenth arrondissement as the taxi zips through dense traffic towards the Bourse. Mlle. Gauthier is rehearsing the information she has to impart. Only the essentials, she says to herself. She will not tell them everything. The essentials will be ample for them to decide how to proceed.

Mlle. Gauthier has been working on Cephylor, the drug named after the brain on which it seeks to affect its properties. Studying the effects of slowing, if not curing the advances of senility. Studying the slowing of the progression of Mad Cow disease or, as it was called in the building, La Maladie de la Vache Folle. She has been involved in the drug’s development for virtually all of five years and watched with a certain dismay as it was issued to its first subjects. For Mlle. Gauthier, someone who trusted in fact, probity and scientific achievement, was certain that the drug was not ready for release even on an experimental basis. In fact, the first run of the drug in rats had led to a most surprising result. True, rodents in question seemed to enjoy a more robust dream life, twitching and frolicking as they slept. True, the disease itself was perhaps less likely to spur the development of Alzheimer’s if one did not already have the disease. Fine. But there was an unusual side effect to the drug never mentioned to authorities or discussed openly within the corporation itself. And it was this unmentioned factoid, somehow missing in the detailed description of the drug as it made its way through governmental agencies, which troubled Mlle. Gauthier.

Lifting her head, Mlle. Gauthier can see through the windshield two men arguing vociferously over a fender bender that has just occurred and, as she continues observing the two men with jutting jaws separated by only a millimeter or two, she watches one pushing the other with both hands. In retaliation, as the other responds, all hell breaks loose. First, the two men punch one another. Then men come flying out of cars halted by the tiff, each picking a side, fists flailing as the melee picks up steam. Mlle. Gauthier can only congratulate herself on her distance from all mankind and her proximity to science. Thanking the cab driver, she pays him his euros, gets out and walks the remaining blocks to the rue Chauchat.

Mlle. Gauthier is a small woman, a bit lumpy in mid-section, with a somewhat pronounced nose which give people the impression that she may be related to a bird. When Penny answers the bell and looks out through the keyhole, she spies an inoffensive person. Yet, she asks the woman her business before opening the door.

“I am with the Pharynx Corporation,” Alise Gauthier replies.

Ari and Penny look at one another but for an instant. “Open the door,” Ari says.

“Of course,” Penny replies, and lets the woman in.

“My name is Alise Gauthier,” the woman says as she settles into a comfortable blue and white stripped armchair. “I have been working on the very drug which I know you rely on. Cephylor is its proper name.”

“You developed it?” Penny asks.

“Yes,” Mlle. Gauthier replies. “Not alone of course. There were dozens of us working on various elements of the drug. But I was one of the responsible ones.”

“How interesting,” Ari remarks. “What did you say your name was?”

“Alise Gauthier.”

’And you are not selling us drugs, is that correct?”

“Not at all,” Alise says her thin lips curling up in a faint smile.

“How did you find us?

Mlle. Gauthier turns serious. “You were followed after you left the corporation yesterday. I only learned of it this morning and decided to pay you a visit.”

Penny pinches Ari’s arm. “You see? I told you they are suspicious.

“That hurt,” Ari says, rubbing his arm. “Anyway, you know that we are among the first guinea pigs to take the drug.”

“Yes.”

“Well, surely you have something else you can tell us about this drug,” Ari says impatiently.

“There is something that nobody has told you about it.”

“And that is?” Penny asks, drawing closer.

“It does all of the things you have been told. It does create a dream-world of considerable value and proportion. It may even make you think, at least for a time, that your health is improving.”

“Yes,” Penny sighs. “Go on.”

“But the truth of the matter is that the drug, thoroughly tested, does not delay death.”

“Yes,” Penny says, her heart beating loudly inside her chest.

“It has, in fact, the opposite effect,” Alise Gauthier affirms. “It speeds up brain activity, speeds up the development of Alzheimer’s, speeds up dementia, and, ultimately, kills you. Rather quickly,” she adds to emphasize her point.

“My God,” Penny replies, flushing and gasping.

“The corporation knows all of these things, but has not revealed any of them to the authorities. It has in fact falsified test results. I know because I handled many of the tests myself. Affected rodents lived a spectacular dream life which we could measure through their REM periods, but died earlier than those who did not take the drug. It is possible, she continues, blowing her nose daintily, that I have been followed here, but I do not think so. It is also possible that if you tell anyone the truth it could be traced back to me and I would be fired. Perhaps firing wouldn’t be enough for them,” she adds ruefully. “Perhaps I would have to be silenced… in some other way. The corporation has invested great sums of money into this drug, and it must produce positive results. They have a rather thin pipeline, you know. Should this drug fail, the entire corporation may cease to exist. True, the drug could be modified in time so that the negative effects are reduced, but that is only a possibility. Science can only deal with the here and now, you understand.”

“You are a brave woman to come forward,” Ari says.

“We thank you for coming forward despite the risks.”

“Even though,” Alise Gauthier says looking intently at them, “that you may die sooner rather than later, with this information?”

“Even so,” Penny affirms. “To be clear, are you telling us that we should no longer take the drug?”

Pause. “Yes and no,” Mlle. Gauthier replies at last. “I wish I could be more authoritative. Yes, if you wish to live somewhat longer. But if what you have experienced in the dream state is meaningful enough, that it is more significant than living several more weeks or months, then perhaps you should continue the drug. At any rate, the choice should be yours in full knowledge of the consequences.”

Penny takes Mlle. Gauthier’s hand and lifts her out of her seat to hug her. “You are so brave to come forward,” she whispers.

“I don’t care for liars,” Mlle. Gauthier says firmly, her thin lips pursing, as she buttons up her coat.

A short time after Mlle. Gauthier’s departure from the apartment, Maddie and Morris are standing before an apartment redolent with cooking smells. Penny has a duck in the oven, surrounding it with dumplings and spices. The smell wafts down the staircase to the rez de Chaussee as her visitors arrive. Climbing the staircase, they hammer the knocker on the ancient wooden door. Penny rises first to the door, reaches for the door handle, misses it, and trips into the door. Shaking herself gingerly, she gets up heavily.

“Are you all right?” Ari asks helping her up.

“Yes,” she says dusting herself off, but rubbing her shoulder. “Yes, I just missed the handle…inattention,” she adds resolutely. Now she reaches for it once again and opens the door. Ari sees a woman he recognizes at once.

“Lilou,” he exclaims! “What a surprise! I thought you had died.”

“Yes, my dear, several times but not today,” Maddie answers with a smirk, taking his hand and firmly squeezing it. “My deaths are lovely. They never last very long.”

“And our friend, Morris,” Penny adds sardonically. “What a pleasant surprise!”

“You’ve had your lark in Paris,” Morris intones in his raspy voice, removing his coat, and sitting as a glass of red wine is offered.

“If that’s what you want to call it…”Ari says.

Maddie shifts the charm bracelet around her wrist. A topaz piece rings against a silver medallion.

“What happened to you, Lilou?” Ari asks, eying her with suspicion. “You never had a left arm. You were born with a flipper. We used to joke that it could be used as part of a pinball machine, but now that has apparently changed, hasn’t it.”

“Yes,” Maddie says, shifting into her role as Lilou.

“Surgery, I suppose,” Ari offers. “Easier to get around with a second arm, eh?”

“A distinct change,” Lilou answers stiffly, and looks around to emphasize that this man is delusional.

“Where did they get the arm? It wasn’t Ebay, was it?” Ari asks.

I think I better have a drink,” Maddie says to Penny. “A stiff one, please.”

“How’s Martin?” Ari asks brusquely.

“Martin?” Lilou responds with a blank look in her eye.

“Yes, your lover, Martin.”

Laughing now, Lilou leans back and receives a drink in her hand. “Of course, the young man in Babylon Revisited, your nemesis. That was a while ago, Paul, I had forgotten about him.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” Ari retorts. “You dumped me for him.”

“Untrue,” Lilou smiles. “When you saw us together in the café holding a coffee mug together, you got incensed and dumped me.”

“For good reason,” Ari spits. “Bitch!”

Leaning forward towards Ari, Lilou sighs. “But that was in the soap opera which we played in together. Not in real life.”

“Good avoidance technique,” Ari trumpets angrily.

“In real life, you and I, Paul, were married. True we had our tiffs, disagreements. Couples do. We were even divorced, just as Ari and Lilou were several times in our soap. But we always knew we were meant for one another despite our differences.”

“I don’t see it,” Ari responds dourly. “Not at all.” He scratches at the wisps of a beard about his face.

“Look,” Morris says with irriation, getting down to business, “you know why we are here. You left the Institute at your own peril and we would like to know why.”

Penny chuckles, smooths back a strand of hair from her temples. “Freedom. We wanted to be able to go where we wished, to do whatever we wanted to do.”

“Without treatment?”

“We know we’re going to die from our disease sooner or later. The question that remains is what we do in the interim.”

Morris guffaws. “You never took enough Cephylor to understand what it could do for you. Not only to extend your life through the dream state, but possibly in real life as well.”

Penny stands and walks over to the window. “Paris is beautiful by night,” she sighs, then turns to Morris. “You offer us a drug. Look out of this window, she insists. This is Paris. Nothing you can give us could possibly replace this city.”

“We offer you extended life,” Lilou adds quietly.

“Don’t feed us crap,” she says to Morris.” If you are offering us a place to stay together while you experiment on us, maybe we could do this for a while. If, in fact, this drug of yours makes us believe that we are living splendidly through dreams, that’s entirely different. But not just living, but living well, differently, without fear.”

“We need to monitor your dreams on a nightly basis,” Morris replies. “We need to see how the disease progresses as you continue to take the drug.”

“And if we refuse?” Ari asks.

Morris shrugs, then growls. “Then you will die more quickly, in greater agony. Your mind will become unhinged at a faster rate. You can have total disintegration very soon if that is what you want.”

“Not what I want,” Ari replies quickly.

“Good man,” Morris replies.

“We don’t know whether to believe anything you say. You have an interest in doing what the corporation tells you to do. We have information that seems to contradict your statement that through this drug we will live longer and happier.

“But the very goal of the drug is to extend your life, Morris says rather impatiently.”

“And the proof?”

Morris scowls. “I could bring you reams of papers, tests that we have done which point in that direction. The only way you will know is to give the drug a chance, but that means staying on it.”

Penny, in turn, scowls. “I don’t believe a word you say. Still, I might be prepared to test it. But we would need a greater sense of freedom. Weekends away, perhaps now and then later for an entire week. Would you guarantee that?”

Morris hesitates. “I believe so, if that is the price of your taking the treatment as you are supposed to. Yes, more freedom is possible, but you will have someone from the Institute from now on monitoring you wherever you go, whatever you do.”

“If we return,” Penny says, “it is because of Ari. Since he left the Institute, his dreams have stopped.”

“And how does this concern you?” Lilou asks.

“Because he enjoys his dreamlife. Not only were his dreams more pungent and alive than much he has experienced in real life, but they prompted him to seek more of life, more of reality. I don’t want him losing this impetus.”

Lilou snickers. “You mean he experiences life more so when he is unaware of it.”

Penny smiles. “I realize it sounds absurd, but it is what I have witnessed.”

“He is more alive asleep these days. “Aren’t you, sweetie?

Ari squirms in his chair. “I don’t know whether I would agree with that,” he says slowly. ”I’m alive both asleep and awake, aren’t I, Penny?”

“Of course, you are,” she says touching his cheek. “Of course.”

“Anyway, what concern is it of yours?” Morris asks angrily.

She sits back down now. “My life is ending quickly,” Penny responds. “I feel it from day to day, the ebbing of whatever force I have within me. However, I remain close to Ari. I want him to experience whatever he can. I want to see him rejoice and to bask in his joy.”

“What a romantic!” Maddie whistles.

“Please Lilou, don’t speak to her like that,” Ari says quickly, starting to get up. But as soon as he rises in protest, he sits down again.

Penny holds up her hand as if to silence everyone in the room. “First of all,” she says, “we are going out for a fancy dinner. Then give us another hour or so to pack, and we will return with you to the Institute. You buy the tickets,” she adds. “No promises, Morris. But we will give it one more try.”

21. How Paul and Maddie Met

Dr. Pinchon’s office is large, decorated in grays and creams, flanked by dark wall to wall bookshelves, with a large partner’s desk in walnut from the 19th century directly positioned in the middle. A skeleton with its brain open for inspection graces one side of the desk. Behind it, sits the doctor, now pensive. “We‘re quite pleased that you have returned, he says to Ari and Penny. And I understand you wish to make changes.”

“Yes,” Penny says, “we do. Ari and I wish to live together.”

The doctor shrugs. “Quite romantic of you,” he sighs. “Perhaps not the best solution for our program, but on the other hand I can think of no real need to keep you apart.”

“I am happy about this,” Ari chimes in. “But I want…want….want…”

“What is it you want?” The doctor asks.

“I want…”his voice descends into silence.

“He wants to thank you,” Penny offers.

“No, no,” Ari butts in almost shouting. “I want…my…I want my…”

The room silences entirely awaiting the last word. After a moment, Ari who has been looking vainly for assistance, speaks again while summoning up his resources. “I want my radio,” he utters. “Radio! This is what I want.”

“Why didn’t you say so?” Penny inquired.

“I think he was doing his best,” Dr. Pinchon replies. “Have you noticed speech difficulties these days?”

Penny lifts her shoulders. “I haven’t heard any,” she replies. “Not until now.”

“It is not uncommon,” the doctor volunteers. “Not uncommon at all. I shall ask Bertrand to help move Ari from his apartment into yours. I believe, Penelope, that yours is larger.”

“That will be fine,” she replies.

“And what about my radio?”

“Yes,” the doctor smiles. “That too. Remember, Ari that you will be living in the women’s section, so your discretion will be required.”

“You got it,” Ari responds, “but I don’t intend on wearing a dress. Ever!”

By early evening, with Bertrand’s help, all of Ari’s clothing, his belongings are transferred into Penny’s room. After a time, but before dinner, the two encircle a small table in her room. “I’m quite happy about this,” Penny gushes. Now she reaches over to take Ari’s hand, but stops a few inches away.

“I wouldn’t want to hurt you.”

“Take my hand,” he replies, almost in a boastful way. Their fingers lock together. “That did not hurt. Nor was I afraid,” he adds.

“They want to begin the pill regimen tonight,” Penny says. “I believe they intend to increase the dose. Are you ready for this?”

“Yes,” Ari replies.” I liked dreaming the way the pill made me dream, and I plan to do it again. How about you?”

Penny shrugs again, fiddling now with her hair. “It doesn’t seem to have the same effect on me.”

After dinner, the nurse enters and draws blood from both of them, reads their blood pressures and performs an EKG. Then she administers Cephylor to each of them. “You may not dream tonight,” she says. “The drug often takes a day or more to affect REM sleep.”

Turning to Penny, Ari asks her to turn on his radio. “Let’s listen to the news.”

“But Ari,” she argues, “the news is always in French.”

“Strange, because I’m pretty sure I understand it despite the fact I never learned French.”

“But Paul speaks French fluently,” Penny says. “From childhood.”

“Ah!” Ari says, “good for him. I wish I possessed his fluency”.

They turn on France 3, and listen to the reports which issue from the radio with some static.

“Well?” Penny asks.

“Yes,” Ari says. “It is snowing tons in St. Malo and the wind has picked up to hurricane force. They are calling it a blizzard.”

“Are you making this up?” She asks.

“Hell no,” he boasts. “I got it all perfectly.”

Within a few moments, Ari’s head begins to lower to his chest, and he falls asleep in his chair. He starts to snore lightly, breathing heavily through his nostrils. Penny shakes him slightly, props his shoulders up so he is in a sitting position, lifts him up and leads him to bed where once again he falls into a profound sleep.

Awake, Penny remains fully conscious processing not only what has transpired that day but also previous days, including the visit of Alise Gauthier. It is possible of course that Mlle. Gauthier is simply a disaffected employee trying to make trouble for her employer, and yet these are not the vibrations she gives. To the contrary, she seems eminently sensible, intent on righting a perceived wrong.

So why have I given in to the Institute? Penny asks herself. Cephylor may, after all, shorten rather than extend their lives? Only because Ari seemed intent on experiencing more of the rainbow dream state which he had already encountered. Clearly, he basks in the glow of his nightly dreams. She looks upon the slim, graying figure on the bed, his nostrils flailing slightly as air breezes out of him. Yes, she says to herself, I have come to truly care for this hapless man. At the same time, introspective as always, she understands that it is totally within her to give herself to a pitiful Ari whose cells are debilitating day after day and whose death is surely around the corner. This is who I am, she acknowledges. Not only to embrace sympathy, but also love.

She herself is feeling the need for affection, craving for someone to care about her. And this she thinks, she hopes, Ari is experiencing. It is not only the affection of a poor, sick man she needs.

Her intelligence tells her that a return to the Institute may be total folly, that the drug will have little positive effect on her, while if Mlle. Gauthier is right, may even accelerate her demise. And yet, dying is not what frightens her. Dying alone, without the opportunity to care for someone, to nurture and, yes, to be loved in return. Lacking those things is worse than any fear of death. She has seen people die before. One moment you are here, the next you are not. But dying with dignity, dying with love, seems more crucial than lasting a month longer without it.

In that moment, she is determined to ferret out the truth of the relationship between Ari and Lilou, or more exactly, between Paul and Maddie. I’m going to flush out their story, to get into the heart of their feelings for one another. Later that evening, she ventures down the corridor to Maddie’s room and knocks on the door.

In a corner of the room, Maddie has stocked a bar. She pulls out a Cote du Rhone, considers its label, then opens it with a deft hand.

“Yes,” she remarks to Penny,” I will tell you about my start with Paul. I appreciate you caring to understand him better. We all do, and we all fail,” she adds grimly, pouring a glass and handing it to Penny. “Why this is, I do not know, but Paul is rather a complex human being.”

“Go on,” Penny says expectantly, settling back into a cushion on the sofa.

“I had already been hired to play Lilou in the new soap opera that the producers sold to ABC. They were now looking for a male to play opposite me. Jason Fierst, the producer in question decided to interview Paul with me present but out of sight. I guess he wanted a candid reaction.

“We’ve seen your work,” he began to speak to Paul, “and admired it. The character you played in Bored and Bountiful, Marsden, the dope addict, we thought you handled beautifully for a young man. I hadn’t seen the show at first, but your name came up in a meeting. It actually came up twice. Several women had seen Bored and proposed you as a perfect fit for the role of Ari Bloom in Babylon Revisited.”

“Thanks for the kind words,” Paul replied evenly.

“I remember him chain smoking throughout the interview,” Maddie continues. “At first, he did not see me. I was sitting in a corner, my legs crossed, listening intently. I liked his voice right away. Mellifluous, strong, perhaps even a bit too strong for the role that Jason had in mind, but it appealed to me. Even the way he sat! Tall, upright, confident. He was a man’s man.”

“I want to tell you about the role we have in mind for you,” Jason went on. “See if this is something you can latch on to.” Paul nodded, and Jason continued. “He’s a youngster having just graduated from Wharton with a business degree in finance. Good looking, but not to a fault. He has one failing. He does not strike others with a forceful personality. Normally, this might turn people off, especially women, who generally like more self-assured men, but women will gravitate to Paul because he is open about his failings. Vulnerable, you know. Almost indecently vulnerable. Is vulnerable in your play book, Paul?”

“Of course,” Paul replied succinctly. “I am an actor.”

“You’d need to expose your feminine side. You do have one, don’t you?”

“I do,” Paul replied in a clipped voice. And for a moment, I thought he had blown the interview with that one statement. It was not only to the point, but too strong, too decisive.

“I’d like you to read some lines for me, will you?” Jason asked.

“Of course.”

Handing Paul a script, Jason asked him to turn to page thirteen. “This is where you enter the investment firm for the first time. You’re young, knowledgeable, but also somewhat insecure.”

“Who plays Lilou?”

“I do,” I said emerging from a shadow in the corner.

“I can’t see you,” Paul exclaimed. He seemed startled.

“Lilou, Paul,” Jason said by way of a quick introduction He handed me a second script and I pulled up a chair next to Paul. At once, I smelled his after shave. Masculine, lemony. I peeked at his face in profile.

“Page thirteen,” Jason prompted.

I opened the script and began.

“Ari Bloom?”

“Yes, that’s me.”

“You’re late,” I groused. “We’ve been waiting for you for over a half hour.”

“I missed the first train,” Ari said hesitantly. “I’m terribly sorry,” he went on, his voice trailing off.

“Forget it,” I said. “The first train often crawls in late. Let’s get right down to it. You will be reporting to me. Here’s your cubicle. You’ve got a computer, phone, waste paper basket. The computer is hopelessly out of date. Not much room for more than a few photos. I’m afraid the space is not very large, but we haven’t had time to find you a more appropriate slot.”

“I can work here,” Ari said in a thin voice.

“Tell me a bit about yourself.” Lilou continued.

“I graduated Cum Laude from the Wharton School,” Ari began. “Is that what you wanted to know? My education?”

“Yes and no. I’d like to hear how good you are with people. Can you sell them? Do you have enough of a mastery of stocks and bonds to be able to make your way in our firm?”

“I believe so,” Ari replied tentatively.

“You don’t sound convincing,” Lilou said.

“I can handle this work,” Ari spoke up.

“Because selling is having control over the subject matter, true, but also being able to relate to the person you are selling to. If you don’t have the human skill, you might as well forget the sales spiel.”

“I can’t say I’ll be mastering all of this in one day,” Ari began, “but if you give me some time….”

“You know what time is, don’t you, Ari? It’s fistfuls of money. Use it wisely and it grows. Use it badly and it crumbles to sand in your hand.” With that line, the scene came to an end.

I lifted my eyes and looked towards Paul/Ari then. It was as if I were looking at a completely different person from the one I had been speaking to. The Paul who was interviewing was confident, strong, totally masculine. But the Ari I had just been interviewing seemed a smaller man, a bit hunched over, who spoke as if he were hoarding his syllables, his thoughts somewhat out of his reach. His face had crinkled so that it appeared less focused. Cute, yes. You felt for him as a woman, and yet you also wished he were less frail.

“That will do,” Jason boomed. “Good,” he continued, to Paul. “You did well. I thought you had this in you. I saw bits of it in your earlier work, but nobody has drawn it out of you until now. Never until this script came along. What did you think, Maddie?”

I replied that Paul had done extremely well, and that I could relate to him as a somewhat withdrawn male.

“Yes,” Jason said turning to Ari, “but this somewhat effacing male also has a larcenous streak within him. You’ll need to offer that to the viewers as well.”

With that, the meeting came to an end. No decision was announced just then, but both Paul and I thought the choice was clear. Paul would play Ari in Babylon Revisited.

As we walked out following Jason out of his office, Jason already veering off to jabber with one of the workers, Paul took my arm in what I thought a forward manner. ”Listen, he said, I think you and I can make beautiful soap together,” he continued smiling. “Come share a drink with me.”

“I don’t think so,” I replied.” I was a trifle offended by the brusque way he spoke to me.”

“Come on, Lilou,” he went on, lowering and flattening his voice, playing Ari to my character, “help me get over my shyness”. I remember laughing, and the next thing I knew we were sitting in a pub booth drinking beer together. He never stopped speaking, joking, spouting an endless stream, and yet, when all was said and done, he had revealed nothing of himself. By the third drink, I already suspected what was about to happen, and I didn’t like myself for already giving in to somebody I had just met, so I played hard to get. His hand was on my knee, toying with the hem of my skirt, a thin nail trailing around the kneecap.

“Let’s have one more,” he said.

“I’ve had enough,” I replied. Then, he leaned back, smiled, pulled out a joint and lit up.

“That’s cool,” I said. “We’ll share it. So, we smoked, passing the joint back and forth, and after a time the effects of drink and weed made me feel luscious, desirable.”

“You’re a beautiful woman,” he was saying to me, his voice resonating in my ear like an echo chamber, his lips now on cruising my neck. I am not a beautiful woman, I know, but I like to hear a man say it and I basked in his advances, the two of us seemingly isolated in a sea of two hundred bobbing, chattering, boozing people.

If truth be known, I hadn’t quite reached thirty in those days, and I had been a model. Rather tall, good figure, an almost symmetrical face, good for some gigs, bad for others, fine long legs with almost perfect breasts. Only my hair was an impediment, I thought, to how I looked. Kind of stringy, dyed a pineapple color. Sometimes, when I examined myself in a mirror, it looked stupid. I vowed to change it and even mentioned it to Paul, but he was running fingers through it and telling me how much he loved each strand. My hair was long and cascaded through his fingers.

Damn, I said to myself, I’m not going to bed with this guy. He’s too smooth. It’s too easy. A couple of drinks, a little weed, and he thinks he’s going to bed me. I was still thinking that when I felt him pull down my panties in his bed, although I did not exactly remember taxi-ing to his apartment, and the next thing I knew we were lovers. It wasn’t sublime. It was necessary.

“Necessary?” Penny asks. She seems stunned by the word.

“Yes, it was the result of two beings perfectly in harmony with one another, perhaps only for that one night. Necessary. And that is how Paul and I met.”

Maddie then leaves. Before Penny has a chance to slip off her shoes in her apartment, there is a knock on the door. When she opens it, Maddie is standing there with the remains of a wine bottle, slurring her words, standing unsteadily against the door. She’s drunk. “There’s more to this story, she says solemnly.

“More?”

“Yes, I need to tell you what happened between Paul and me after the first night. I left you with an impression which might give you the wrong idea.”

“It’s late, Maddie, and as you can see Ari is fast asleep.”

She emits a smile. “Paul sleeps like a stone,” she offers. “Nothing you or I do will wake him.”

“Well, then,” Penny says grudgingly, “come in.”

Maddie slings a leg onto the arm of the chair she falls into, and leans back, the bottle of wine pressed to her lips. “That first night, I do remember asking Paul whether he had a condom. “Yes, he said, “I do, a Trojan with ticklers at the end.

“And you intend to slip it on, right?”

“Yes indeedee,” Paul replied.

“Do I need to help you with it?

“Does the pope need help to don a cassock?” he retorted, offended.

“You’re implying that Paul didn’t wear a condom that night?”

“Well,” Maddie says, sloshing wine around the bottle, the first thing I knew was that I had this little itch in a very private spot, you know. And after it wouldn’t go away, I went to my gyno who said I had a common STD, and that he would give me a course of antibiotics to stem it. He did and, after a time, the itch disappeared. I figured, even though Paul had not worn protection that night, the fucking liar, I was now safe. In the interim, until I knew exactly what was going on, I refused to go out with him. This pissed him off. He called me all the names in the book, including the ‘c’ word. He also liked the word cockteaser and threw it at me for several days, but I would not relent. But after the itch went away, I saw no reason not to go out with him provided I told him about the STD and provided, in the future, he didn’t lie about the condom thing. I guess I could have told him right away, but I was embarrassed at first. I waited. When I finally gave in to him, he accused me of lying. I showed him the pills I took, then he asked me to give him the remainder of the bottle and I said that probably there weren’t enough pills to cure his STD, but he insisted, and I relented.

“Well, that should have told you something about Paul, enough for you to avoid him completely,” Penny says. “He lied to you, he gave you a sexual disease and when you called him out, he got angry and belligerent. Not the sort of guy you pray for in your life, eh?”

Giggling nervously, Maddie can hardly control herself. “That’s exactly what I said to myself a hundred times, but the guy could be so charming, even fabulous, I simply couldn’t resist dating him. Still, I wasn’t so sure we should have sex again until I was convinced that he had gotten over his problem.”

“And had he?”

“He said he had, but I didn’t believe he had gone to a doctor to be tested. So I said: Paul, until I see evidence that you are cured, I am not going to sleep with you.”

“How did he take that?”

“He was not happy about it. He tried to talk me out of my stance, but once I am committed to something, I’m usually persistent, so I did not relent. Finally, after about a week, he brought me documentation from a doctor saying that he had been treated for the STD, and that he would be safe again after another week. I waited two weeks. But by then, something else had occurred. I was feeling sick. Occasionally, I even threw up. I thought at first that this was a lingering by-product of the STD, but my doctor said that would be highly unusual, so he asked me to come in and ran a battery of tests.

On the bed, Ari was now turning, his eyelids fluttering up and down. “He’s having a dream,” Penny whispered. “A good one.”

“Boy,” continues Maddie, “when I got the results I was shocked. The doctor congratulated me on my pregnancy.”

“I didn’t expect that,” Penny replies.

“Nor did I,” Maddie says, finishing the bottle and laying it down. “And since I had sex with only one guy, it was clear that Paul was the father.”

“That must have been a shock!”

“Dreadful,” Maddie groans, I didn’t want a child. I hated children, anybody’s, and I clearly didn’t see me having one of my own. On the other hand, I had grown up to believe that abortion was a sin in the eyes of God.”

“How did Paul react?”

“I couldn’t bring myself to tell him at first. I was pissed. After all, he had lied about the condom. Had he worn one like a normal guy, my predicament would never have occurred. But after a while, I realized that as the father of this child, Paul needed a say as to what happened to it. I told him. He said he liked children, particularly the really young ones, because he found them cute. When they got older, however, he couldn’t stand them. I replied: once you have a child, you can’t stop having it. He agreed and wondered whether it wasn’t better for me to dispose of it. We talked about abortion and I explained how uncomfortable I was with the idea, so he said: “Have the child and give it up for adoption. Maybe I’d even adopt the kid for a few years before I place it in a foster home. But I knew he was joking, not about giving the kid up, but about adopting him in the first place.

“But now, something else had occurred to me. How would the writers on Babylon Revisited take to my pregnancy and, eventually, my body swelling up like a melon? I decided to ask Jason. To my surprise, Jason was totally unsympathetic. Couldn’t he have asked the writers whether they could write around my pregnancy? Instead, he refused to go in that direction.

“You got yourself into this mess,” he said grumpily, “so it’s up to you to get out of it.”

For a moment, I said nothing. I was so surprised at this reaction. I asked him then why the writers couldn’t change direction a bit, but he replied the script was set and if I couldn’t fit into it, maybe we needed to look elsewhere. I was pissed, so I persisted. I asked him why shots of me couldn’t be taken above the waist. You know, fool the viewers once I started to show, but he pointed out that the script called for several action shots in the future between me and Ari, and it wouldn’t be possible for the camera to lie consistently and still catch what he wanted to photograph.

So, I left. Befuddled. Now my career was also on the line. The tossup between my religious inclinations and bearing a child had become unequal. With Jason’s intolerance, I was pushed into a position I never wanted to consider. I talked to Paul about it, but he never stopped for a second to discuss it. “You have got to do it in,” he said rather brutally.

“Easy for you to say,” I replied.

“You don’t really have an alternative,” he scolded me.

And this was true. Reluctantly, I went to a clinic and had the fetus sucked out. But this also taught me something about Paul. Showed me that he would always take the easy way out, that his regard for me would always be secondary to his regard for himself and his creature comforts. I would always be finally, unalterably oblivious to him and his decisions. What I hated most wasn’t the abortion finally, but that I still felt, coward that I was, that I couldn’t live without the man. After the event, after an afternoon of self-pity and suppressed anger, I crawled back to him virtually on my knees begging him to love me.

“How did Paul react to that?”

Maddie giggles again. “This was his ideal scenario. He always enjoyed lording it over women. As long as I was submissive to him, he would consent to keep me in his life. He expressed love for me. He caressed me quietly in a way which I thought out of character for him. After a while, he even talked marriage.

“Which you leaped at,” I supposed, Penny says, trying to hide her scorn.

Maddie pours out the last of the wine. “Not at all. I wondered what kind of hell I would undergo if I were legally contracted to Paul. Sure, I wanted to be a key part in his life, but I was concerned that marriage might not be the way to achieve it.” Now Maddie arises unsteadily, walks to the sink, and pours out the remainder of her glass. “I guess I’ve had enough,” she ruminates. “Time for an old lady to go to bed.” Penny opens the door for her and watches as Maddie totters down the hallway, her knees buckling from time to time, hitching up her skirt as she stumbles over the hem. At her open door, she turns briefly, waves, closes the door behind her and slides down on the floor.

22. A Visit from Mr. Ganesha

The sun finishes rising, clouds dispersing through the morning fog. A recurrent breeze lightens the warmth of the day.

“Do you remember going to jail?” Penny asks.

“Yes,” Ari replies. “I remember the circumstances quite well.”

“Will you tell me what you remember?” she replies. They are sitting on a bench outside the Institute under the shade of an elm tree on a sunny, warm morning.

Ari sits up straight in his canvas chair as he is wont to do when exercising his brain.

“Yes. It happened this way. It had been a slow morning, and I was arched back on my chair daydreaming. After lunch, I went to the copy room to kibbitz with Sarah, a pretty brunette. Afterwards, I returned to my cubicle.

A Mr. Daitja Ganesha called me that afternoon and asked whether we could meet. I asked him about what and he replied somewhat mysteriously: “About stocks and bonds.” Certain that this was a new customer, I agreed at once. That afternoon nearing four o’clock, he walked in. He did not need to know who I was or where I worked, for he came at once to me with bold strides. I remember him as a middle-aged, round-faced man dressed in beige pants, a dark blazer with a fading yellow tie and a foursquare in his pocket. Especially I recall the shoes he wore. To die for. He saw that I was admiring them, told me that they had come from the Gucci store in Florence. They were made of gleaming dark walnut leather with pointed, sparkling toes. Mr. Ganesha wore a pencil thin moustache across a dark, Indian brown face. Round it was like a full moon, with black eyes lacking luster. He smiled a lot. I don’t remember when he was not smiling. Whether this was an affectation or not, I do not know. He sat down in my cubicle, crossed his legs, sat up straight straightening his foursquare, and handed me a business card.

“I’ll get right down to it,” he began. “I am a fairly wealthy businessman. I run a hedge fund in India, in Mumbai, and also sit on the board of several large corporations in town. Now I wish to do business in America.”

“What kind of business?”

“I wish to trade large blocks of shares.”

“And you came to our company for this purpose?” I was surprised by this gentleman and his stated needs, for our company did not rank among the twenty largest. “We are not the best known in town.”

He wagged his finger at me. “Don’t talk yourself out of what may be a good deal for you,” he said, still smiling, “perhaps a very, very good deal for you.”

I realized that I had spoken stupidly. “Of course not,” I said hurriedly. “Just curious as to why you came to us.”

“You have the admiration of several people. Sterling recommendations,” he added. “One of them is a woman named Legion whom you worked with, as I recall.”

“I did not reply to this. Immediately I mentally pulled back. Anything that had to do with Legion was anathema to me. True, I was curious, crazy curious to know what this was really all about. Legion must have known that anything to do with her would be poison in my mind. But I refused to comment to Ganesha about Legion. Let Ganesha tell me more about the lady and how she fit into his scheme.

I tripped over my tongue and said: “You’ll want to know our commission schedule.”

“Perfect,” he said,” but I already know for the most part how they range for the retail trade. I’ll be doing rather larger trades, institutional trades, if you will, and expect a lesser load.”

“That can be arranged,” I replied, sucking my lips.

“Good,” he said and only then did I see a flash of light in his eyes.

“How did you hear about me?”

“We have a mutual friend,” he answered, continuing to smile. Her name is Flora Smitherson. That is her name today. I believe the lady is a customer of yours and also someone I have known and esteemed for years.

“I did not recall this person being a client of mine, but Danesha spoke of her so highly and so forthrightly, that I assumed it was but a clerical mistake. He leaned forward towards me. “You and this lady have met before. I believe her name then was ‘Legion’.

I almost bolted out of my chair when he mentioned her name. He was still smiling as he waited for my reaction.

“Then you must know that I was unable to come to agreement with Legion, but that we left one another on good terms.”

Danesha moved his chair closer and leaned forward. “Let’s get down to it. You and I can make a great deal of money. I am privy, let’s say, to information from several corporations, information which I may receive before others…. He paused and looked up at me with his large, black eyes. In the interim, we can be buying and selling stock in advance of the market.”

“Insider trading?” I shot back, my eyes narrowing.

“A problem for you?”

“It’s not ethical,” I stammered. “This is the exact reason that I could not deal with Legion.”

“Worse,” he added laughing, “it’s downright illegal, but you haven’t answered my question. You may not have wished to do business with Legion. I fully comprehend this because she was not terribly careful in how she handled her business or clients. But what I am offering is a completely different deal. Secure, unbreakable by authorities, and enormously profitable.”

Then I heard myself say: “How much money are we talking about?” Business had not been bad for me that year, but it was hardly stellar. I had been racking my brain to see how I could justify receiving a bonus without doing a larger volume of trades. Here was my opportunity. Of course, it would be illegal, I thought, but surely, a man as fine as Mr. Danesha would have considered every angle. I realized that I was justifying my untenable position, but for once, I couldn’t care. I had my eyes set on a mansion just four miles north of Atlanta, but the cost of this prize would be prohibitive without more money for a down payment. In this sense, everything converged so that I would quickly submerge my ethics.

“Quite a bit of money,” he answered obliquely. “The commissions you make will be part of it, but you may also devise a way to trade undetected in the same way as I do.”

“But that could be difficult,” I cringed. “The company has personnel from several agencies examining large transactions all the time.”

“No problem,” he said quickly, “Because when I sign up with you, it will be through a dummy corporation, and it will be the chairman of that dummy corporation who makes trades. Of course, this person does not exist. Except in my imagination.” He said the latter almost wistfully.

“I see,” I said. Breathlessly. I was intrigued by the perfection of his presentation. I was also frightened, but terribly excited. I had been making ok money at the brokerage firm, but here was an offer which would cause my income to skyrocket. However, I had to find a way to trade which would not implicate me. I asked Mr. Ganesha whether we could meet the following morning to continue this conversation. In the meanwhile, I would consider his offer.

Smiling broadly, he got up. “Don’t try to double cross me,” he said ominously, still smiling broadly, and toying with the edge of the foursquare. “I’ll be searching for a wire when we see one another next.” Instead of worrying about the comment, I tingled with excitement. We shook hands and he left.

So that night, I took Lilou out to dinner. As was her wont, she was dressed admirably in a subdued aqua marine dress cut just above the knee. In the pale candlelight of the Formosa Restaurant on 43rd Street, she looked splendid. I told her about my meeting with Mr. Ganesha. I could see her contemplating several options. Then she spoke. “It’s potentially dangerous. You do get that?”

“Yes, I agreed. “If I get caught, I’d go to jail”.

“Then we have to find a way for you to avoid prison,” she said, each word focused and considered, and placed a hand on my knee underneath the table.

Her reaction did not surprise me. I always thought her hard-headed about money. After a few more moments, her eyes shot up. “Got it! We’ll trade in my mother’s name. She lives in Quebec in an assisted living home. Fortunately, she has dementia. No one could possibly trace any problems to her doorstep. We’ll set up an account in her name.”

The word ‘fortunately’ concerned me. So callous, so unconcerned. This was, after all, her mother. And yet I agreed finally that hers was a grand idea. If I remained concerned, I wondered exactly how the monies would flow. At first, clearly into her mother’s account, which meant that Lilou would ultimately gain control over them. How could I be sure that I would eventually receive these funds? If she was so hard-headed about money, wouldn’t she also try to bypass me? This made me nervous. I hated that I was potentially misjudging Lilou, and yet I felt that I needed to have some form of protection.

Lilou observed me thinking, calculating. “We are good friends,” she said in an intimate fashion. There will be no distance between us regarding money. Her hands waved back and forth as if to stress the point. I’ll simply ask for a percentage. Say a quarter of what you make will remain in my mother’s account, an account to which I would have access, of course. My mother, after all, will never need this money.”

Blinded by greed, I gave in, if reluctantly. The following morning, I received Mr. Ganesha not in my office, but in a café where we sat outdoors sipping mocha lattes.

“Open your jacket,” he said. He probed my chest through my pin-striped oxford shirt. Then he sat back, satisfied.

I had been considering this alliance with Ganesha intensely. On the one hand, I was still concerned about his connection to Legion, a woman I had learned not to trust. But on the other hand, greed was trumping all of my concerns. Ganesha seemed so clearly sure of himself, perhaps even secretive in a way which would protect both of us.

“You’ve got a deal,” I said, explaining, perhaps recklessly, how I would also trade to benefit as much as I could from the transactions. This arrangement suited him. He even offered me a cigar. I took it, placed it carefully in my pocket, and when I arrived at my building, gave it to the doorman whom I knew smoked.

Ten days passed. Nothing. Then, one morning, Mr. Ganesha called, placed a few trades of modest size. Testing the waters he was. Nothing illegal about any of these transactions. Exxon, IBM, Apple. That sort of thing. He’d buy several thousand shares at a time, and then as time passed sell some of his holdings. Some he profited from, others not. I began to think that his entire scheme was a phony.

About a month later, I got a call from him concerning the Seiji Corporation, a Japanese Company. They were about to announce the development of a new chip which would speed computing immeasurably. Seiji was trading at $43 a share. Ganesha asked me to begin buying that day, no more than thirty to fifty thousand shares at a time until I had acquired a million shares. At the same time, I put in orders for Lilou’s mother’s account to buy several thousand shares until I had acquired fifty thousand. I did not have the money to cover all these trades, so I bought on margin. “The brokerage firm loans you the money to make such purchases, and you pay them interest on the loan.” I explained to Penny.

A few days later, we completed our purchases. The Seiji Corporation reported that its new chip would transform not only computers, but mobile phones, and could be used in a variety of other applications including a new approach to virtual reality. The stock soared almost twenty points. At this point, Mr. Ganesha and I began to sell into the teeth of the rise. The stock eventually settled at 57 dollars a share, but by this time, Mr. Ganesha and I were both out of the stock. We had both quickly made a very large sum and Mr. Ganesha, despite thinking out loud that the less we saw of one another the better, invited me and Lilou the following weekend to dinner at his home outside of the city.

He sent a limo for us which gathered us at a movie theatre close to Lilou’s apartment. Black, endless, luxurious, the limo was driven by a man who identified us from a photo which he held in his hand, yet never spoke a word to us.

Once outside the city on the Island, we arrived at a long driveway the end of which led us to a mansion framed in elaborate stone. The mansion was lit by a multitude of sources mainly from the ground up, illuminating the structure as if it were the Taj Majal. Lilou and I looked at each other and stifled a giggle as if we were invited to be introduced to royalty.

Mr. Ganesha had prepared an exquisite dinner, or, more exactly, had his chef cook a four-course meal. “I hope you like rabbit,’ he inquired. “It’s a thing of mine.”

A squad of four servants waited on us. Never smiling, never looking in any direction other than forward, they seemed somewhat less than human. Each was dressed in the same black pants and long white shirt with matching crimson bow-tie. But as soon as we were seated, they blended into the background and we forgot about them. Mr. Ganesha had invited three other couples, all Indian, who regaled us with stories of their country. Then, something strange happened. While recounting a story about a wedding in Punjabi, one of these men inadvertently dipped his sleeve into the sauce of an appetizer and, as he raised it, all talk ceased. Someone whom I did not see, either from a loud-speaker or from another room, called out to the man to tell him to change jackets. He rose quickly and did so with the assistance of one of the servants while the rest of the table engaged in small talk. I thought it unusual that the servant was able to find at once an impeccable, suitable jacket to replace the stained one. As soon as the exchange was completed, and the man had regained his seat, the voice from the other space bade us continue. We heard what sounded like a thunder clap before the man with the dipped sleeve spoke again and, curiously, repeated exactly what he had said, word for word, before the sleeve incident. I considered asking Mr. Ganesha about this, but he was in deep conversation with one of his friends, and finally, I held my tongue.

Neither of us had eaten rabbit previously, but we did try it, some exclaiming that it tasted somewhat like chicken. I thought I saw Lilou cringe a bit, but I rather enjoyed my rabbit. With it, we sampled several red wines from Saint Emilion, also a thing of M. Ganesha.

Quickly, it became clear that Mr. Ganesha had invited us not only to become closer with his new trading associate. He was also smitten with Lilou. As I believe I told you, he was not the first to go gaga over her, despite her deformity. Men overlooked it because their eyes never ventured beyond that beautiful, expressive face of hers. By the end of the evening, Mr. Ganesha felt comfortable enough to take her hand every time we moved from table to sofa and sofa to lounge area.

Yet again, an inexplicable moment. As Lilou rose to walk from a sofa to the pool lounge, she tripped, stumbled, and instinctively cursed. Stop. Everything stopped. Everyone froze in their tracks. If they were speaking to one another, even in mid-sentence, they ceased. Life ended in the mansion, even in the universe, just for several instants. Yet, how this was possible, I had not the faintest idea. Despite my lack of understanding, situations like this occurred quite often in my life, and I learned to accept them without question. The ethereal voice bade Lilou retrace her steps for what reason I could not fathom. She returned dutifully to the sofa, sat down and, in a moment, got up again, and walked, this time flawlessly, to the pool lounge. It was as if everything in this house had to function perfectly and, if it did not, had to recur, but in an impeccable fashion. I found this exceedingly strange, but no one explained it to me, nor did I ask, because I thought it rude to do so. Of course, I did not wish to appear uninformed. In the meantime, as Ganesha or one of his cronies spoke to me, I found myself speaking words, sentences, even thoughts which I could not lay claim to as mine, and yet said them anyway. So, when one of the Indian men asked me my thoughts on American culture, I claimed that while I was no expert, I thought our culture to be among the best, the strongest, the most loving and charitable in the world. Actually, I did not believe this. I think I did not believe it. I actually saw American culture through my experience; that is, as a set of scenes which often lacked morality and, sometimes, continuity. This perplexed me throughout the evening. And yet, despite my consternation, I continued to speak as if somebody else had control over my tongue.

Mr. Ganesha was to see Lilou several times in the next few weeks. She told me this, and when I inquired as to the nature of their relationship, she giggled and said:”Daitja has an Indian thing. He just wants me around to pretty the place up. Nothing more.” But I did not believe her.

Then one day several months later, a man came to my office. Yes, I said office. I was no longer in a cubicle. I had earned enough money for the firm that they offered me both a raise and an office with a view. I could see across mid-town, a vista I enjoyed very much, because the taxis streaming down Broadway always appeared hallucinatory, like some great broken, yellow jet torrent.

“The man,” Penny interjects. “What about the man?”

“What man?” Ari asks, confused.

“You said a man had come to your office.”

Laughing, Ari says: “Many men came to my office.”

“But that particular morning,” Penny continues exasperated, “you started to tell me about a man, perhaps a special or unusual man. Someone who was not a client?”

Buffaloed for another moment, Ari says nothing. Then, he sits up quite straight.

“Of course,” he responds, his face brightening. “The young man in the gray pin-striped suit from the Securities and Exchange Commission.”

“Go on,” Penny encourages him.

“Yes, this was the man who would cajole me,” Ari continues in a matter-of-fact voice. He said that the SEC had noticed a pattern of unusual trades made through me with regards to the Seiji Corporation. Trades which occurred several days before Seiji went public and before the announcement of their new chip, he added.

Once he said this, I thought I would fall through the floor. I knew my face was crimsoning. It felt hot to the touch, so I turned to one side so that the man could not see it. “I don’t recall those trades,” I countered.

“That would be unusual,” the man replied,” because they were much larger trades than your account ordinarily handles. Yes, we have access to your dealings over the past year or so,” he added.

“I made no such trade for myself,” I objected.

“Yes, we’re aware of that, but you seem to have traded for a gentleman who is a partner in a fund overseas. Can you tell me something about this person?”

“Very little,” I said. “Just someone who called and wished to trade on behalf of his fund.”

“So, you do remember it,” the man said, now smiling.

“Yes, now that you have brought it to mind,” I replied, mentally kicking myself in the ass.

“What was the man’s name?” he asked.

“I don’t recall,” I said, trying not to sound defensive.

“But you would have this information in your records,” he asked, although the question was actually a statement.

“I suppose, although if we traded for a fund, we might have used the fund’s name as the entity which gave the order.”

“Somewhat uncommon,” the man replied, now less polite. “Secondly, another order, perhaps somewhat less imposing, but still bigger than most of your trades came through from Canada. We traced these to a woman living in an assisted living home in Quebec.”

“Yes,” I said but did not know why I said it.

“Can you tell us how a woman living in an assisted living facility in Quebec is sophisticated enough to trade in a Japanese Corporation like the Seiji?”

“You would have to ask her,” I said maintaining my voice as evenly I could despite the pounding of my heart.

The man now brushed off lint from his jacket, and a small smile creased his lips.

“We did, in fact. But she said she had never heard of you, the Seiji Corporation, nor has she ever traded an equity in her life.”

“You must have been mistaken,” I stammered.

“No, the man replied sternly, “it is you who made the mistake. We flag unusual trades and these caught our eye.”

The man left shortly thereafter. I don’t recall worrying about any of this, although that should have been the normal reaction. Instead, I simply waited, my mind unable to wrap itself around the situation. I was simply numb. Two days later, this man returned with a warrant for my arrest. They had me stand up and turn around facing Broadway. I looked down on the fleet of yellow cabs racing down Broadway, and wondered whether I would ever see them again. Three men ushered me out of my office in handcuffs. I wasn’t particularly popular with my colleagues as I recall, but the expressions on their faces showed complete disbelief. No one felt that I had done wrong. One of them wrote me later on to say he thought I wasn’t bright enough to trade illegally as I had been accused. I thought that rather nice of him.

In the interview room of the prison, my captor was waiting for me as I was led in, shackles removed. He offered me a bottle of water. Dasani. “We can make this simple,” he began. “Furnish us with the name of the person who provided you with advance information about Seiji and we’ll reduce your sentence.”

“I know nothing about this,” I retorted with bravado. “Anyway, what proof do you have?”

He snickered. “All we do, Mr. Bloom, is follow the money. A lot of money found its way into your bank account. You profited from illegal trades. But we don’t care about you, Mr. Bloom. You are small fry.”

“I have nothing to say about this. I think I better call my attorney.”

“We will eventually trace the money through the dummy corporation to the person who ultimately benefited,” the man said. “Tell us now and save us some time. We could be generous.”

At that moment, I wanted to spit in the man’s eye, and rose angrily with my fist cocked, when suddenly someone outside of the door flung it open, and shouted that the scene was ruined, that I had not uttered the correct line, and that I needed to control myself and stay in character. Bewildered, I asked what this was about, and he replied not unsympathetically that my character would not respond angrily because, as we all knew, Ari was something of a wimp. Somehow, despite my fury, I got the gist of what this person was saying, and so after the detective repeated his assertion that the money would be traced, I became calmer and spoke phrases which, for some reason, did not seem to be flowing out of my very mouth, although clearly I was uttering them. I know this does not make any sense. I certainly did not mean many of the things I was mouthing, but said them anyway.

A while later, I appeared before a judge. He fined me a large sum of money. I really had never had money of my own, but I imagined that if I had a bank account, it would have been wiped out by the fine. Then, the judge sentenced me to a year in jail.

“Given that this is your first offense,” he intoned,” I would have shown you no jail time had you cooperated with the prosecution.”

I bowed my head and was taken in cuffs to a cell. The one thing I was clear about is that I would not be a snitch.

“And did you hear again from Mr. Ganesha?”

“Yes, I did. I was already serving my sentence when I received a phone call from him. He thanked me for not revealing his identity. “I knew I had picked the right partner,” he added pleasantly.

“Fine,” I said dourly, but when I leave this jail I will be penniless and without work.

“Pity,” Mr. Ganesha replied. “One other thing, Ari, to show you how good hearted I am. As long as you remain in prison, I promise to look after your companion, Lilou. Never fear that she will spend lonely nights,” he chuckled. I could imagine him with that perennial shit- eating grin on his face.

Enraged, I told him to go fuck himself, but he simply laughed and hung up the phone.

23. Maddie Tells All

Nights, Ari and Penny cling to each other. Ari cannot figure the need for this closeness. He has never before engaged in it on such a scale. Even with Lilou, when they clinched in bed, Ari was able to disentangle himself relatively quickly. As for Lilou, she always seemed content once their hold on one another relaxed. Unlike Penny, Lilou never asked him to put one part of his body into another part of her body. Penny, however, insists on it. Penny disrobes first. Often, she likes to stand before a mirror in her room, turning once to show off her slim body. Occasionally, she remarks on how well preserved she is, even at age 70. Then she reminds Ari that it is time for him to shed his garments. Often tired, Ari does this quickly. He rarely looks at Penny, and certainly not in the way that she desires. In bed, they edge together, Penny’s arms around Ari, and in this manner, they fall asleep. Sometimes, Penny asks Ari to rub her. Ari does so without emotion or pleasure. Nor is it difficult or hurtful for him. He is simply fulfilling a duty, much as he used to do on Babylon Revisited. Once, Penny enables him to have an erection and guides it into herself. Afterwards, she asks him whether he enjoyed himself. Ari looks at her blankly. After a moment, he recognizes that he felt ok, and says so. This always brings a smile to Penny’s lips, and immediately afterwards, she falls into a deep sleep.

One morning, a nurse enters and advises Ari that he and Penny are to undergo tests within the next fifteen minutes in the basement of the clinic. Several days elapse, quiet days. Ari and Penny await the results of the tests. Afternoons, they often venture into town. One afternoon, Bertrand drives them to the Café Select where they share a salade nicoise for lunch. The Café Select opened in the 1920s during the Art Deco period, and virtually nothing has changed in the interim. Great stained glass panels in purples and blues of rising and intertwining plants, large mechanical architectural and ornamental devices adorn the walls. The café shimmers with the gloss of the period, its excesses as well as its beauty. To the rear of the café, the three of them lounge in a booth. Penny has invited Bertrand to join them for lunch.

The waiter brings a red from the Loire valley. Chilled, tasty, it goes down quickly, warming them. The days are now decidedly cooler, and the nights have an edge to them, although the Institute has not yet begun to heat.

“Why don’t you turn on the heat at night?” Ari asks Bertrand.

“Because,” he says, “it is not yet time.”

“Time?” he asks quizzically.

“Yes, we start the heating on a certain date.”

“But what if the weather turns colder earlier than this date?”

Bertrand shrugs. “We wear sweaters.”

“This makes no sense,” Penny intervenes.

“This is true,” Bertrand acknowledges, “but it is very French.”

Just then, Nicholas Deslauriers, a patient whom they know from the Institute, barges into the Café and, spotting them, joins them in their booth. He is known to them as someone who often intrudes on the conversations of others. Deslauriers likes to file in behind walkers around the campus and eventually inveigles himself into conversations. Normally dressed in a conservative shirt and tie, today he is wearing a brown, wool cardigan.

“I enjoy to speak English,” he begins. His eyes are cowled like a dachshund. It is hard not to laugh at him when he looks so serious.

“But this is not an open conversation,” Bertrand chides him.

“Pity, “Deslauriers replies, “but then I am here to enlarge and perhaps adorn it.”

“Would you take some wine?” Ari asks him.

Penny places her hand over Ari’s mouth. “No, no no,” she admonishes quickly. Mr. Deslauriers, tu dois partir et tout de suite. Leave now.”

“And why is this,” the offended man says slowly, raising his eyes to her.

“Because you were not invited into this group.”

“Pity,” he repeats, “but we can change this, of course.” Deslauriers speaks slowly, pithily, with the conviction that he must be right and must retain the upper hand in this matter.

“Partez,” Bertrand scolds him. He then lifts the man bodily out of his seat.

“It is almost,” Deslauriers cries out, his eyes at half-mast, “that you do not want me among you.” On the ground now he begins to back up. “But I am sure that this is not possible.”

“Partez,” Bertrand repeats and this time, appearing distressed, Deslauriers turns and leaves. Bertrand shakes his head and scowls. “He has dementia from la maladie de la vache folle, but he is not dangerous.”

At this moment, in the heart of Nancy, Maddie and Morris are strolling on a pedestrian walkway stamped in repaved pale-yellow concrete. Maddie is resplendent in a floral dress with a white chiffon bow and a woolen sweater with red and white wavy designs. Morris is wearing corduroys, gray and wrinkled, with a white shirt topped off by a purple jacket.

“So, Paul and I were married,” she continues. “He was a difficult guy to live with, egotistical, self-serving, finding fault with me again and again. Didn’t like my hair color, the way I dressed, even my cooking.”

“You could have left him,” Morris says, “if there was no opportunity to change him.”

She laughs. “How many times did I consider that…and yet, when the moment came, I always backed off. I truly did love him. Loved him for the very control which sometimes was excessive and which sometimes I despised.”

“Get on with your story,” Morris urges. They stop at a café, take seats under an outdoor, overhead heater, Morris settling back comfortably into his chair.

“Yes,” Maddie says as the waiter approaches. “I’ll have a Pernod.”

“Fine for me as well,” Morris says. “But with plenty of water, please.”

The waiter brings the drinks on a tray. They clink glasses together, Morris urging Maddie to proceed.

“The trouble began when Paul met a girl named Daina,” Maddie goes on, “a young actress from Israel. Jason hired her for Babylon. She was set for a short stint in the soap which was to last maybe a couple of months. She would be Ari’s flirtatious secretary who would complicate his life. The plan was that she would eventually disappear under bizarre circumstances. Circumstances which seemed to implicate Ari but which could never be proven. This opened up a new vein for Babylon. Ari had a competitor for the girl’s affection, a mysterious man whom we never actually saw in the flesh, but who certainly had some role in the girl’s disappearance. Of course, I was also on set for much of this time and I could see that Paul was taking a definite interest in the new girl. Jason knew how to pick ’em. Long black hair, large brown eyes tinging green, an aquiline face, the girl was simply beautiful in an exotic way, and such beautifully formed, symmetrical lips! Trim, tall, good figure, the sort of chick that would make Paul’s fantasy life hum. One afternoon, she sidled over to Paul and invited him to accompany her to a jazz concert taking place the following evening in Piedmont Park. She knew full well that Paul was committed to somebody else, that somebody being me, somebody she knew from the series, but that fact, the intimacy of our relationship never caused her to swerve. Paul came home late that afternoon and says that he and Daina are heading to the park to listen to jazz.

“What about me? I asked. “I like jazz. Who’s playing?”

“Keith Jarrett,” he says, looking superior, “I bet you don’t even know the name.”

“Better than that,” I boasted. “I know he plays classical as well.”

“Look,” Paul says, cradling one of my hands, “this is a little invitation from Daina for me. I can’t just bring you along, even though you are my wife.”

“And why not?” I bristled.

“Because she didn’t invite you and…well, I’m not inviting you either. I’d like to get to know Daina a bit better. A professional thing, you know. After all, we are working together.”

He left me standing there in a muffled rage unsure as to whether I should slam his face with a frying pan or simply accept the fact that this was the Paul I had long feared who might emerge in our relationship. In fact, I felt powerless to stop him. I was simply an observer.

I watched from afar as they traipsed off to the jazz concert. He came home that night not too late. I was wide awake, of course. He said little about the concert, and went directly to bed. Later that week, he invited Daina to a Sunday barbecue at our house. We didn’t talk about it, but in a certain sense, I welcomed the opportunity. This would be my first interaction with her. Welcomed it because I figured that you must embrace your enemy if you truly want to figure her out. Gauging her attributes and liabilities became an obsession. I took care to look my best, because I feared the comparison Paul was sure to make. After all, I was already fifteen years older than Daina, less beautiful, but I had a trump card. I knew this son of a bitch and she did not.

We made dinner in the back yard, Paul cooking, which he rarely did on the grill, joking and carrying on. I could see he was trying hard to make points with her. And Daina…well she only had eyes for Paul. Raising and fluttering eyelids. Sweet. Whenever I spoke to her, she would deflect her answer in such a way that the conversation always reverted to Paul’s interests, never mine. I could clearly see where our triangle was heading. For a moment, I said to myself, just get the fuck out of the way, girl, and let this happen. Once he’s done with this chick he will return to you, but I didn’t completely buy into that fantasy. On the other hand, I did not feel there was anything I could do to stop the momentum of this relationship. Should I have suggested to Paul to think twice? He never did that. Or maybe even broach a separation? I was afraid he would take me up on it and that would make the situation even more perilous. Perilous for me, I mean.

Hesitating among several courses of action, I ultimately did nothing. I was frozen in place. Weekends, Paul started to go out, no longer even confiding where he was going or with whom. I knew then he was sleeping with Daina. Jealous, confused, hurt, angry, a welter of emotions erupted that I could not sort out or cope with.

A month passed like this. He and I were scarcely speaking. Nights, I slept in a separate room. This distance probably was fine with him. Yet I needed a physical separation if for no other reason than to drive home the possibility that he might be losing me.

They decided, Paul and Daina, to keep their romance quiet on the set. Nobody knew about it. Funny, eh Morris? They were more discrete about their affair at work than they were with me, the wife. As for me, I spoke to nobody about it either. I didn’t want people to know how miserable Paul had made me feel. So, on the set, we all behaved ourselves in a professional manner. At the end of a month, Paul was talking about the possibility of a sabbatical, as he termed it, away from me, so that he could think things over. Lovely! But just as I was endlessly crying myself in sleepless nights, something unusual occurred. I had from the very first believed that I would wait out the affair, that eventually, my shallow, unfaithful Paul, would lose interest in Daina. Much to my surprise, this did not happen

It was Daina who broke first! At least that is the way it appeared. It took about three months. I was never privy as to why or how this occurred. Did she discover that Paul was, after all, a jerk? No, I didn’t think so, because I thought her immune to any sensitivity concerning him. Or was it possible that Paul, after screwing her day after day, started to grow weary of the same relationship and started to dart elsewhere. Yup, she would have reacted badly to that. I clung to that belief until Paul called me the night Daina dumped him, and what he told me catastrophically altered everything between us.

She looks at Morris and stops. “Maybe I should keep my mouth shut,” she says, but says it in a tone which belies her words.

“Something you don’t want to confide?” Morris asks.

“I wouldn’t want you using what I am about to tell you. This is all in confidence.”

Morris now leans forward, for in the back of his mind, he has been welcoming this conversation, welcoming Maddie’s fierce love-hate history with Paul which might give him ammunition against Paul should he ever need it. The Pharynx Corporation had suggested such an invasion of Maddie’s intimate moments to Morris months earlier. Now, Morris listens intently.

“I had never heard him cry before,” Maddie continues. There was something totally affecting in his voice when he called me. I was holding a saucepan in my hand, and when I heard him sobbing, I dropped it. Dropped it on my foot.

“Go on,” Morris urges her. “Go on!”

“He asked me to come to Daina’s apartment, and to get there as quickly as I could.”

“What’s happened?” I asked him.

“He would not reply through his sobbing. He simply repeated that he needed me there to help.”

“For what?” I asked him.

“There’s been an incident,” he responded. “I can’t explain it. Certainly not over the phone.” He stopped as the sobbing started up again. I said nothing, awaiting the end of it. “Please come quickly,” he said.

He gave me her address and I ran outside and jumped into a cab, foolish girl that I am. Daina lived in Buckhead in an apartment on Peachtree Road, one of those newer luxurious ones with cathedral ceilings, marble floors, gold plated faucets. You get the picture. When I arrived at her door, it was Paul who answered. He didn’t embrace me, or say anything. He simply grabbed my arm, pulled me into the room and shut the door hard. I noticed that he was wearing gloves, white workman gloves.

“She’s dead,” he sobbed. “Daina is dead.”

I had feared something violent might have happened because I knew that it was in Paul’s character to strike a woman, but when he said those words to me, I blanched, felt dizzy and had to prop myself up while struggling to breathe.

“Tell me what happened,” I said to him as calmly as I could.

“But that’s just it,” he said, his face tear-stained, his eyes red and his cheeks swollen. “I don’t know. I had planned to see her tomorrow, but something she said to me in the morning grated on me and I decided to come over so that the two of us could talk it out.”

“What did she say to you, Paul?”

“She was suggesting that we not see one another anymore, but she would not tell me why. She hung up on me when I pursued the matter. I came over about an hour ago. She did not answer the door. I opened it with my key,” he said sheepishly, “and I found her in the bedroom dead.”

“You found her dead”? I asked incredulously.

“Yes,” he replied. “I could not believe the scene. Come with me,” he said loudly. With that, he grabbed me by the arm and walked me quickly into the bedroom. On the floor was the body of Daina, half dressed, her eyes wide open, panties off to one side, blood coagulating over her body, a large black, serrated kitchen knife by her side. I took a step back when I saw this tableau and whispered something like ‘My God…’

“I think she killed herself,” Paul said to me. He spoke in a normal voice. “There can be no other explanation.”

“Was she violated?” I asked looking at the panties.

“I don’t know,” he replied. Then he looked at me quickly, and his eyes deflected downwards at once.

Her face! The scene was surreal. Her eyes seemed to be fixated on the ceiling, and there was something wrong. It looked ghoulish. “You have to cover her with something…a blanket.”

“I know where they are,” he answered and rushed off.

Yes, I thought to myself, I bet you do.

He returned with a baby blue blanket with frilly ends and covered the body carefully. Only her feet were not tucked in when he finished.

I stared down at him. “You really think she took a kitchen knife and killed herself with it?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Women don’t kill themselves with kitchen knives,” I replied bluntly. “Not even in Japan.”

He looked into my eyes. “But if she did not do this, then somebody else must have. I suppose,” he continued, now sitting down, “that she was planning to leave me. I asked her whether somebody else was on the horizon, but she simply smiled coyly and did not answer. That was this morning.”

“When you found her like this, you called the police.”

He looked at me quizzically then. Pulled out a cigarette and started to smoke. I hadn’t seen him smoke for quite some time. “No,” he replied, “I was afraid to call.”

“Afraid? But why is that? You have to inform the police.”

“Because I would be their number one suspect,” he replied, exhaling. “We were close, as you know,” he said with a hangdog look. “I cannot call the police. They would think I killed her.”

“Did you?”

“Christ, no,” he said vehemently. “How could you think that about me?”

It was the wrong question, because I firmly believed Paul was capable of murder under the right circumstances. “If you didn’t,” I blurted out. “Who did?”

He looked crestfallen then. “I think Daina was hiding other relationships,” he answered, “and one of her boyfriends may have done her in because he found out about us. Somebody who didn’t know that she was already planning to leave me,” he went on.

Of course, I did not believe a word of this. “Her plan to dump you,” I said bluntly, “simply provides you a motive for murder.”

Jumping up and pacing, he turned to me with fire in his eyes. “I did not do this,” he repeated firmly. “You have to believe me.”

“Well,” I replied, unconvinced, “what do you intend to do?”

What he said rocked me back on my heels. “I want you to help me destroy any vestige of my presence in this apartment. That’s why I’m wearing these gloves. Look, nobody has seen me in this building and when I leave, I’ll take the stairs and scurry down the back way. I want you to help me disappear.”

What a callous imposition! For the first time, I wanted to strike Paul. “You do, do you?”

“Yes,” he continued, as it never crossed his mind that I might find helping him objectionable, “help me remove my fingerprints, that sort of thing. Maybe take a few objects, break several items to fool the police into thinking there was a robbery.”

“And you are asking me to do this?” I couldn’t believe my ears.

“Please,” he replied. “We are still married. I realize I have let you down, but I promise to change. This will never happen again.” He said that with a straight face looking me in the eyes.

Morris is sitting up straight now watching Maddie whose fingers are tapping out a rhythm on the glass table before her. “What happened then? Did you call the police?”

“No. I didn’t. I was stupid. Of course, I did not believe Paul. While I never thought of him as a murderer, there could not be any other conclusion to be drawn from this mess. Still, I hate to admit this. In the back of my mind, there was a small chance, a thin hope that, in fact, some jealous lover, may have committed the crime, not Paul. So even though I had the phone in my hand, I put it down.”

“This was a mistake,” Morris countered.

“Yes, it was.” Paul went through the apartment with a fine toothcomb deleting his fingerprints and any hint of his presence. A photograph of the two of them he tore up and pocketed. Then he broke a few tables, grabbed some jewelry from a box in a drawer, placed two fingers in front of his lips, blew me a kiss and ran down the back stairs. I stumbled home in a stupor.

The police found her body two days later. They interviewed the entire cast of Babylon Revisited including Paul and me. Of course, neither of us admitted that we were in her apartment after her death. The cops found fingerprints belonging to me, and asked me about those, but I simply replied that Daina and I occasionally ran scenes in her apartment with a cup of coffee or a drink.

“Then, with a sickening rush of dismay that almost caused me to collapse, I had an epiphany of what truly happened in that apartment. Not about her death, but afterwards. The police did not find Paul’s fingerprints in Daina’s apartment. Then I got why he had called me after he had murdered her, because now I was certain that he was the murderer. He wanted my fingerprints to be discovered even as he carefully erased all of his.”

“And the upshot of all of this?”

“The killer was never arrested,” Maddie goes on. “Clearly the police suspected Paul, but he gave them an alibi they could not break, the alibi that the two of us had agreed to, that we were together all evening. I couldn’t dispute that alibi ever because I had not called 911 when I found Daina dead. Had they learned that my alibi was fabricated, it would have suggested that I was an accomplice to murder. Yes, they questioned Daina’s other boyfriends, and there were several, but without result. The case remains cold to this day.”

“Did Paul ever tell you exactly what happened in that apartment?”

“No,” Maddie goes on. “Once we separated, Paul treated me only like a colleague, a professional actress. He kept his distance. We never again made love. We never again even cuddled,” she shivers. “Our relationship was over, and yet not a word was exchanged to explain it. In some ways, since I had covered for Paul, you would have thought it would bring us closer together, but just the opposite happened. He was suspicious of me, I believe, always wondering when I might use what I knew against him. As for me, I tried not to judge him. I tried to forgive him. I still loved him in a strange way, but we separated and ultimately divorced. His deed would lie forever in the pit of my stomach churning, bitter, distasteful. Still, I felt that our relationship, however disturbing, had ended incompletely, had not been truly exhausted. Angry, hurt, hostile and, underneath, still enamored of Paul, sidestepping every morality I had been raised with, I never overcame my wanting him.”

24. Ari Takes a Walk

“I understand why you are concerned,” Dr. Pinchon says to Penny, his face drawn. He leans forward, his elbows on his desk. “He is quite ill, his vital signs are slipping. He doesn’t have much time left.”

Penny frowns. “And the vaunted meds, Cepylor?”

The doctor throws up his hands. “They are experimental,” he sighs. “I wish I could give you a better prognosis…”

“Then there is nothing that can be done?”

“Nothing,” Doctor Pinchon replies somberly. “As long as he takes the medication, his dreamlife will be exceptional, but that is all we can do for him now.”

“Or for me…”

“Or for anyone, I fear,” Doctor Pinchon avers.

Penny looks out the picture window behind the doctor’s office. It is a fine, brisk morning. The sun is peeking through the haze of dawn, a gentle fog spiraling around the Institute.

Ari is waking up in a particularly good mood. As usual, he has been dreaming, but for the most part, he attempts to suppress it. Nonetheless, a part he cannot ignore springs into consciousness even as he vainly tries to deflect it. It is a perplexing scene, a half-naked and bloodied body of a woman, a long, serrated, black kitchen knife nearby, a pair of panties by the body. It is a corpse before him, for it is clear that this woman is no longer living. But that is all he allows himself to catalog as he regains consciousness. The remainder he drags back away from awareness. This is a recurrent dream, he recognizes, and while it is unpleasant, even jarring, he is able to cope with the vision, then simply retreat from it, and open his eyes to another day without injury. I have had this dream so often, he says to himself, I don’t need to think about it any longer.

In his pajamas, the green and white stripped ones with the beige top, he boils himself a cup of English breakfast tea, sips it slowly while peering through the large picture window of his room onto the fields below and beyond. He could descend to the refectory and have himself served a regular breakfast, but he is not hungry. Instead, he puts on his sneakers, goes down the stairs along the grounds and wends his way to the front gate. Opens it. He begins to walk.

“It is a pleasant morning for a stroll,” he thinks. The morning is crisp, the kind of morning triggering the remembrance of an incident, the time when he walked down Fifth Avenue close to the Museum of Modern Art on a similarly fresh morning, the seeping fog lifting. All of a sudden, two men leaped out of a taxi and demanded money from him. He had none. The men pistol-whipped him sending him to the hospital. This is not the first time he was rushed to the hospital, he recalls. Over the years, he has been mugged, shot, yes pistol whipped and even thrown out of a careening city bus. In each instance, he ends up at Mount Sinai emergency room. And yet, he does not see himself as a violent person. These memories are troubling.

But this morning is different. Nobody approaches him at seven in the morning. A bearded Arab vendor hawking prayer rugs does not even bother to court him. Ari strolls in the direction of town. How long he does not know. After a time, the morning wearing on, the streets are teeming with traffic. Several horns honk at him. He waves at them. People filling the streets on their way to work peer at him, some scornfully, others giggling, all with something to impart as he walks by. They are calling him a clown, but he does not understand this, nor does he comprehend their good cheer. It is not very French for so many people to be in such a universally good mood, he thinks. He walks on.

After another half mile, he stops at a boulangerie, now hungry, the scent of the store impelling him to enter. He orders a croissant, and when an aproned girl hands it to him, she asks him for payment, but he does not understand. He has no money. She repeats her request. He is growing fearful. The line behind him swelling exponentially, she becomes angry and orders him out. He gratefully eats the croissant with gusto and lowers himself onto the curb. Taxis on the corner are blaring their horns at him. He waves to the drivers.

Arising, Ari begins to move again. In another ten minutes, fatigued, he stops before a rather large building. He believes he has seen this building before. It is cavernous. As he enters, a young man is playing a classical guitar, its sounds echoing, reverberating throughout the cavernous building. He enters. Yes, it is the train station, but he cannot recall when he has been there last. He looks up at a large panel clicking loudly, rapidly, showing departing trains. He boards one uncertain of the train’s destination. He scans the wagon, finds a seat, and lowers himself. His head is heavy. He slumbers. He is visualizing the people who waved at him. There must have been hundreds of them. Friendly people. Friendly Frenchmen and women. Never heard of such a thing, he quips to himself as awareness dims.

He wakes up with a jolt as the train starts to pull out. Lifts the blinds, and peers out of the window and watches the train station whiz by him. Lulled by the clicking wheels, he dozes off again. After a while, he feels a hand on his shoulder. A man is speaking to him, a man with a kepi and a gray uniform peppering him with questions, but he cannot quite shake out of his lethargy. He raises his arms to indicate that he does not understand, so the conductor leaves. Ari finds this an unusual moment, for while he acknowledges that he understands nothing said in French, he actually absorbs the language. Strangely, he feels that while his conscious mind is unable to comprehend, his subconscious is working overtime. But how do you explain this to a train conductor? The conductor returns a few moments later with another man. This man says in English: ”Why are you dressed this way?”

Ari does not comprehend. Looks down and sees that he is not wearing trousers. Instead, he is still in his pajamas. “I forgot to put on my pants,” he says sheepishly.

The man conveys this to the conductor and they both laugh. “Your ticket. Where is it?”

“I don’t have a ticket,” Ari replies sadly. He realizes that he has done something untoward.

“Then we will have to deal with you at the next stop,” the man says seriously. “This is a grave situation.”

“Which is the next stop?”

“Paris. This is the fast train.”

“Oh no,” Ari replies unhappily. “I have already been to Paris.”

“And you will have to pay a fine,” the man adds.

“But I have no money.”

“I see,” the man says, his brow furrowing. “I see. So, show me some identification.”

“I have none.”

“Merde,” the man replies, sharing this with the conductor and scratching his goatee. The conductor whispers to the man. The man repeats: “The conductor says you are a crazy person.”

“Not at all,” Ari huffs. “I have all my marbles, but I do have la maladie de la vache folle.”

The man interprets this for the conductor who looks amazed and falls back a step just as the train is entering a curve.

“Crazy cow? You are sure?”

“Yes.”

“And it is contagious, no?” The man asks, looking quizzical, askance.

“I believe it is,” Ari responds with a slight grin, lying pleasantly.

“Mon Dieu,” the man says to the conductor. “We must leave this man where he is.” Turns to Ari. “I will call ahead to Paris for an ambulance to meet the train. In the interim, speak to no one, touch no one, do not move. Do not leave your seat until the train stops.”

With that, the men distance themselves. When the train pulls into Paris, Ari finds a toilet at the end of the wagon, and locks himself inside. In the corridor he can hear the bustle of men shouting to one another, a series of brusque movements as both police and hospital workers move in and out of the wagon. After a few minutes, the noises cease, and Ari steps out of the toilet straight into the arms of a person wearing a hazmat suit.

“There you are,” the man says in a muffled voice. “We wondered whether you had left the train.”

Ari smiles and is about to respond when he hears a ringing. Not from the station or the train. A ringing in his head, tinnitus he believes, and as he contemplates these internal bells, even as the hazmat man is urging him to step forward, his thigh muscles begin to twitch uncontrollably, his vision blurring to such a degree that he can no longer focus in front of him. He reaches out to touch the shoulder of the hazmat man and, as he does so, his universe darkens and he slides down into the long, deep and dark chasm of oblivion.

25. Ari Bids Adieu

He is dreaming once more, but somehow he intuits it is for the last time. In some recess of his mind, Ari understands this. Nonetheless, he is eager to pursue this virtual life. He sees in front of him the potential, the panoply of the dream he may still mold. Yet, he is reluctant to shape the dream. Instead, he lets it go in any direction it wishes as one does a kite set on the wings of a swirling wind.

He is dreaming that he and Lilou are about to wed in Canada. Lilou is telling him excitedly about Calgary where she has family and where the wedding will take place.

“How many do you expect in the family?” Ari asks, standing next to a wood stove in a cabin.

“Quite extended,” Lilou responds vaguely.

“A guess?”

“Several hundred,” Lilou confesses, almost embarrassed by the figure. “But this number cannot have any bearing on the wedding itself.” Ari takes Lilou in his arms and kisses her on the forehead.

“Of course not,” Ari says.

“Diya and Rahul wanted so to meet you. They are total fans of your series. They watched with horror when you fell out of the airplane, but successfully managed to land in a cornfield which absorbed your drop. They cheered when you swam the English channel, despite the fact, as everyone knew, you had just undergone heart surgery the previous week. And when you accepted your inheritance of ten million dollars and a mansion in Jaipur, they could not believe your good fortune.”

“Of course, I knew that you were of Indian descent,” Ari says, “but I am an equal-opportunity husband and will make nothing of the caste mark on your forehead. Of course, I know they did not circumsize you,” Lilou titters. “I would have snatched the knife out of their hands and planted it in their bottom.”

Ari rolls over. Penny, who has been nodding off, lifts her head and turns to Bertram. “What can he possibly be dreaming about?” she wonders.

Bertrand takes her hand in his. “Often, as the sun sets, they dream about a venture unexplored.”

Ari steps out of the pickup truck, takes off the Stetson and wipes his brow. The wind is picking up and the hot sun rising. “Where are we?”

“At the arena, the grandstand, where they do the rodeo. It seats thousands,” Lilou responds.

“And what are we doing here?” Ari asks. He brushes off his dungarees.

“Pay attention, fool. We are getting married tomorrow.”

“Of course, we are,” says Ari shakily unsure of the place of his forthcoming wedding. Lilou takes his hand and they enter the arena. She points to a paddock. “We’ll come out of that shoot once we hear the accordionist play ‘’Here Comes The Bride.”’

“With or without a bronco?”

Lilou ignores him. “We walk to the center of the ring. There will be a makeshift altar on which will be set candles and photos of boyfriends and girlfriends we have had.”

“Isn’t that unusual?”

She laughs. “Not at all. The ceremony is a way of forcing the couple to the outer banks of awareness.”

“I’d like to examine the photos,” Ari says. “Not only mine, but yours as well.”

Lilou commands a couple of wranglers who bring out a large table filled with photos which they set up in the middle of the arena. She walks over with Ari and lifts up a photo of a brunette who is laughing broadly. “Clea,” Lilou says. “The girl who spent afternoons flying kites with you and who wrote endless reams of poetry extolling your virtues. “I remember,” Ari says. “I do recall. I wonder what happened to Clea?”

“She is now with the angels,” Lilou replies somberly. “You planted a knife in her ribs and then twisted it.”

“I never did such a thing,” Ari replies, blushing.

Lilou laughs. “Of course, you were exonerated. Teflon sweetie that you are.”

In the photo, Clea begins to laugh out loud. Ari drops the photo. Clea appears before him, blood spewing from her side, fully formed. Ari begins to move backwards cautiously.

“Ari,” Clea shouts, “my sweetness, why did you do this? I loved you as nobody else ever will.” Lilou smirks.

Ari cannot recall the incident. “Forgive me,” he says to Clea. “I never meant to hurt anyone.”

“It is your guilt to bear,” Clea says fading out of sight.

“She knows her man,” Lilou says, shaking her head in admiration. Lilou steps up to the table and holds up a photo.

“Which one is this?” Ari asks.

“Brogie,” Lilou responds. “No, he does not have another name. Only Brogie.”

“Like some ignorant French actor,” Ari replies. “Tell me about him.”

“Not much of a story. We had a sentiment going. Then we didn’t.”

The photo erupts into flames. Lilou drops it as Brogie appears out of the vapors.

“It was more than a short story,” Brogie complains. He is a young man in a yellow jacket and cycling shorts. Brogie turns to Ari. “We were in love,” he begins, “until we weren’t. I mean she wasn’t. Lilou was already involved with a wing of air force pilots, and when I complained, she rigged my bike until I went down a ravine and into a tree. I believe that is what we call murder.”

Lilou chuckles raucously. “I had nothing to do with your bike. Your lovemaking was a bit worn, kinda odious, a bit too short. True, I cut us off, but your death was an accident.”

“Live with the guilt, bitch,” Brogie says before he disappears into the cloud above him.

Lilou turns to Ari. She raises both arms in a gesture of despair. “The cops looked into this. There was nothing to it. You do believe me, don’t you?”

“Hardly,” Ari replies.

But in the next instance, a preacher comes forward, blesses them, and then reads the act of marriage. As he does so, four broncos spring loose from their cages, snorting, kicking and screaming, but collapse into a kind of reverie before the couple.

“You may kiss the bride,” the preacher intones.

Ari kisses Lilou. She whispers in his ear: “Look happy now, you idiot.”

He pulls back from her face with a blank look. “But this is no marriage ceremony. The preacher has said nothing but that we are wed. It’s as if I were dreaming all of it.

“Smile,” Lilou says taking his jowls in her hands and squeezing. Ari smiles.

“I have been waiting for us to marry,” Ari says with a satisfied look on his face.

“Well, enjoy it, because I’ve seen the script for next month and it ain’t gonna last.”

“And why is that?”

“Because I find Mr. Right on our honeymoon.”

With this, Ari recoils. He steps forward through a haze and finds himself standing before a hotel. At the Marriott, Ari meets Lilou’s parents for the first time. They settle in for an afternoon drink at a table in the rear of the hotel. Dija and Rahulo order soft drinks. Montgomery martinis are brought out for Lilou and Ari, sporting pink and magenta umbrellas.

“I am thinking,” Rahul says, ”that this will be the grandest wedding I have attended.”

“And mine as well,” Dija adds.

Ari toasts their presence. “How did you meet?” Diya asks.

Lilou smiles. “I met Ari in a poultry factory where he was plucking feathers from hapless chickens. I was writing a story on such factories. Nonetheless, Ari made an impression on me. For one thing, he was not entirely covered by chicken poop and feathers. True, he looked comically loveable. Secondly, he urged me to come to dinner with him.”

“It was a summer gig in between jobs,” Ari hastens to set the record straight. “We went to the Steer and Beer pub. Anyplace that did not feature fowl,” Ari adds.

“I knew he was misplaced among all those feathers. I asked him about the future. He said he wanted nothing more than to be a financial consultant. We spoke about it much of that evening. I helped enroll him in the local university. And the rest is history.”

“Did you enjoy the chicken plucking?” Rahul asks. A silence ensues.

“I never thought that God sent me into this world only to unfeather birds,” Ari replies. “And the proof is in the pudding.”

The following morning, the Potlatch Ceremony begins in their honor. It is a periodic and important ceremony meant to distribute wealth and to confer status.

Ari is dressed in ancient Indian robes. A headdress of chicken feather crowns the outfit. A shaman or priest comes forward and blesses the couple. Lilou wears a short skirt, presumably to reveal her outstanding legs. The priest, Ari notices, despite eyeing them for a prolonged period, does not mention them at all. Around them, the stands are teeming with relatives, onlookers and a smattering of dope peddlers. They applaud wildly whenever the shaman stops speaking. The shaman himself seems to enjoy mightily this token of respect. He sends for Lilou’s parents, centralizes them, and moans incantations, whirring about them with hand signals to accompany his fine benedictions. The couple then retreats into the stands to be met by relatives who grab, kiss and shove them into place as the ceremony continues. A man in the stands, a Hindu, rises and sings a folk song from Jaipur.

At one point, Lilou whispers in Ari’s ear. “Your left leg is swollen.”

“Poppycock,” Ari replies.

Lacking appreciation for this defense, Lilou bends down and rolls up Ari’s left leg and points to a red spot on the thigh. “And what is that?”

“Pay attention to the ceremony,” Ari retorts. “We are in the throes of wedlock.”

“I shall,” Lilou responds, “as soon as you tell me what you intend to do about the left leg.”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“I could plant it in your behind,” Ari replies miffed.

“Try it, buddy,” Lilou says flashing her flipper, a dramatic tool sometimes used to deflect stalkers and the like with swift jabs to the throat. “Remember, my friend, you still have to account for your sweetheart, Clea.”

“I didn’t touch her,” Ari protests.

“Not physically, perhaps, but you set up a love tryst between you and another girl just when you knew she came home.”

“Yes,” Ari recalls. “She surprised us in the bedroom.”

“No,” Lilou responds. “The only surprise was that she didn’t kill you right then and there. Flustered, enraged, heartbroken, she set out in her Jeep and crashed into an elm tree off the highway, her car engorged with flames beating red hot in the sacred place of the heart which you murdered.”

With this, Ari’s dream slides off in a haze and he returns to a profound sleep.

“So, what do you think?” Penny asks.

Pinchon looks up, stores his stethoscope, and smiles benignly. “There is nothing more we can do.” He says this in a matter-of- fact tone.

“And Cephylor? How about that precious, gorgeous, beautiful life-saving drug?” As she speaks, the day is descending, shadows intruding into the antechamber.

He throws up his hands, his lips crisping into a Gallic frown. “Not what we had hoped,” he responds,” but Pharynx knows this and is working to improve the drug.” He turns to look at Penny who is now sinking onto the corner of the sofa in tears. “I’m very sorry, Penny,” he continues. “I know this man means a lot to you.”

“I always knew he would go this way,” she answers wiping away tears, “but I didn’t think it would happen so soon.”

“You will stay here after Ari is gone?”

She shakes her head vigorously. “What for? No, doctor,” she answers opening the door to Ari’s room, “I intend to return to the States.”

Now Ari opens his eyes. His arm tugs at the lines which have appeared spiderlike on the back of his hand.

“Don’t pull, Ari,” Penny says. “You have an IV now.”

“Yes,” he says. “I can see that. What happened to me?”

“You collapsed on a train.”

“I don’t remember any of it,” Ari confesses.

“It doesn’t matter. The important thing is that you are safe now and here with me,” she says somewhat grimly.

“Give me my phone,” he says suddenly. “And my contact ledger.”

She hands these to him quietly. “Who are you calling?”

“An old friend,” he smiles, dialing. “Snake! Is that you? Yes, it’s your crazy sick friend.”

“Heah, man” Snake replies. ’How’s it going? I hadn’t heard from you for so long, I thought you might not be eating barbecue with me again.”

“Not so far from the truth,” Ari says. “I don’t have much longer, I’m afraid.”

“You mean you got just a little time to chat. I hear you. Did you ever settle as to who you was? Paul or Ari?”

“Ari,” he replies.

“Good man,” Snake giggles. “You made the correct choice. Heah, I’m driving trucks for a new company and making enough money to buy hot dogs and drinks for my lady friends.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Take care, my friend.”

“Yeah, I hear you.”

“One thing before I hang up. You never told me your real name.”

Snake is silent for a moment. “I don’t want you tellin’ this to nobody. Are we on the same page?”

“We are.”

“Etienne Beauvois,” he says.

Ari laughs. “You’re shitting me.”

“I can’t stand the name, although it’s the one my father gave me. When my friends hear it, they fall down laughing.”

“See you, Etienne. Take good care.” He hangs up slowly, uncomfortably.

He props himself up a bit and turns to Penny. “What is going to happen to you when I’m gone?” he asks.

“You’re not leaving on the fast train,” Penny jokes.

“Because I worry about that, about you being alone as the cow mess worsens.” His free hand makes an arc as if to stop her from replying. “I know I’m coming to my end. I wish I had more time with you because I have been learning to like many things about you. In fact, this may be love,” he smiles.

She bends over and kisses his dry, caked lips.

“I don’t mind disappearing,” he continues after a moment’s pause. “It’s nature’s magic trick to which we all are bound. But what happens to all the things I have learned? What happens to my ability to play the piano, or to talk nicely to my dog, or sing folk songs to a beautiful woman? My knowledge of history and the stage. And all the thousands, even millions of sightings of other people, of sunsets, of landscapes without end, of the eternal sea. Think of all the people I have seen in this, my long life. What happens to those sightings? All of this will be lost. All that remains will be my brain which, for the moment, possesses all I have ever sensed and thought. I have willed it to science. And in a bit, once the neurons and synapses and all the little wirings have been analyzed and tugged and broken, even that will disappear. I don’t think I have children, he asks plaintively. Do I?”

“No,” Penny affirms.

“So, I don’t leave flesh behind either. I’ve often wondered about the point of it all. You got no choice except to play the deck you are dealt. You are born, you go through a life for some short period and then you end. Afterward, there is nothing. A void. But full awareness is the most difficult card to turn over beforehand, to know that you are leaving forever those you care about and who care about you.” He shifts again in bed. “I’m tired now.”

“I’ll leave you to sleep,” Penny says.

“Yes, sleep,” Ari says. “I wonder whether I will have a final dream. And if so, whether the dream will last forever.”

A half hour later, Morris comes into the room. Ari wakes up with a jolt, turns to look towards the door.

“What are you doing here? Do I know you?”

“We are friends,” Morris says almost whispering. “Friends.”

“I don’t think so,” Ari replies pulling his covers up to his neck.

“For a long time now,” Morris says.

“You’re here to steal my money,” Ari blurts out. “I know a thief when I spot one. Where is my wallet?”

Morris gets up. “I’m not here for your money. I’ll look for your wallet.” In the closet he pulls out a pair of pants and from the pocket, a wallet. “Here it is,” he says. Here’s your wallet.”

“Put it back,” Ari responds sternly. “I know how much money is in there, and I’ll hold you accountable…”

“Sure, Ari, sure.”

“Are you certain we know one another? Because I don’t ever remember seeing you.”

“Jesus, I’m sure.”

“I’ll be watching you put the wallet back into my trousers,” Ari says. He observes Morris’s activity, and then ushers him out of the room.

Outside, Morris is shaken by this encounter. “He thinks I’m here to steal his money,” he groans crestfallen.

“But this is not Ari anymore,” Penny replies. “Ari is leaving us and, in part, his mind is already gone”.

“I know Maddie will want to be here at the end. I’ll go find her.”

Outside in the hallway, holding a bouquet of petunias, Maddie is walking towards Morris in the hallway that leads to Ari’s room. He takes her arm, but says nothing. From his face, she can tell that time is running out. When they arrive, she looks through the small aperture and seeing Penny, moves Morris backwards to a bench on a far wall.

“So, what are you going to do?” she asks Morris.

He shrugs. “I’ll check in with Pharynx and see if there isn’t anybody else they want me to squire around or look after, but with such poor results, this drug doesn’t seem to be worth the trouble.”

“He’s not going to have a funeral. No ceremony. He’s told me that a hundred times. Leaving his brain to science and the rest of him cremated. But don’t you want to go inside one more time and say goodbye?”

Morris tugs at his bowtie. “I’ve had a farewell tug,” he starts, his face straining. “You know I never cared for Paul. The only reason I got to know him better after an accidental encounter is that I hoped he would lead me to some profitable employment. Which he did. But I never cottoned to the son of a bitch. He wasn’t a very nice person, as you above all people, know. And as for his alter ego, Ari, that guy is a total wimp and spent half his life led around by his nose. I don’t respect people like that. So, now I intend to take the train to Paris in the morning, stop at Pharynx, collect my wages, and then catch the first plane out of here. What about you?”

Maddie looks down. “I hate that it is ending this way. I wanted Ari to jump out of his role back into his creator, and for Paul to tell me that I was the great love of his life, that he never did or intended any harm, and that he would be looking for me throughout eternity. But I guess that is not going to happen. Not only because it seems that Ari’s mind is drifting off a bit faster than the rest of him, but because he would never have said these things. Still, I needed to hear them. One more time before the end. I’ll also return to the States and try to get back to Babylon Revisited. I need to know whether they’ll keep my character for the next season. And then, I’m dying to see the final episodes they shot with Paul before he came overseas.”

“You are a dreamer,” he says to her, but not scornfully. “I almost thought you were happy he was dying, that you could watch his last breath, measure out his final gasps, and only that would truly make you content.”

“I wondered about it,” she affirms, “but that’s not it. Finally, it’s history, its love. Not hate, that wins out.”

“What about your theory that Paul is a murderer? If true, he made it through life without punishment.”

Now Maddie looks up and smiles, tugs on the corner of her sweater. “You think he hasn’t been punished? Just look at the poor sap!”

“I mean through justice.”

“I know what you meant,” she replies.

Penny remains sitting in a chair next to the bed holding hands with Ari. His mouth is moving, but nothing intelligible emerges. A bit of saliva forms on a bottom lip which Penny wipes away. “I hope I didn’t make a mistake by having you return to the Institute with me,” she says, but she realizes that he cannot reply. His eyes no longer move nor do they exhibit any sparkle. He continues to speak soft syllables without meaning. And then he stops.

In a moment, Penny leaves the room.

“He’s gone,” she says, her face drawn. But she does not cry.

“Sure?”

“Yes.”

“Just like that?”

“Yes,” Penny reflects. “Just like that.” Then she walks slowly down the corridor to her room.

Epilogue

The Director’s Cut

In her Lexington Avenue apartment, a two-bedroom, two bath walk-up, cork walls soundproofing the living room, Maddie illuminates the imposing TV set hanging on the wall. Maddie has invited Penny to view Ari’s last episodes on Babylon Revisited.

“Before Babylon starts,” Penny remarks, “is there anything I need to know?”

“I have recorded the final episodes,” Maddie says. “Not the actual ones, but the director’s cut of the final episodes with all their foibles and warts.”

Fascinated, Penny sits back. In her hand, she holds a glass of Johnnie Walker scotch. She takes a sip. “Smooth,” she offers.

“These are Paul’s very last installments playing Ari. As you know, they were written after Jason discovered that Paul had contracted a terminal illness, but before he was taken to France. Naturally, this means that the writers needed to find a way to usher Ari out of the show…permanently.”

“I do get that,” Penny nods, swizzling ice in her drink. “I hope I can sit through all of this and retain my cool…”

Scene 1

The scene opens in a swank restaurant off of 45th street and Second Avenue, the Italian gem called Abruzzi. In a red, leather booth near the bustling kitchen huddle Ari and Lilou. They are dining on lobster ravioli with garlic and butter.

“My God,” Penny says choking slightly, “it’s my Ari.” Tears flood her eyes.

“And somewhere in that mess was my Paul,” Maddie shudders.

“Delicious,” Lilou remarks, savoring the food, lowering a fork. She lifts a glass of ice water to her lips. She is dressed in a pale cotton floral dress which shimmers in the soft lights of the room.

“Not bad,” Ari says. “You seem on fire to tell me something. Something new?”

“Well, I suppose I should come right out with it. I’m returning to Montreal,” she says. “They are offering me a local news anchor position.”

“Doing the weather?” he asks, slyly.

“The news and nothing but the news, you bastard,” Lilou smiles.

“Don’t go,” he says looking her in the eye.

“And why wouldn’t I?”

“Because I am asking you to stay with me,” he responds softly, looking intently at her.

“What’s in it for me?” She asks

“Me,” he answers, his hands to his chest, a tiny smile forming. “You can have me, all of me.”

“And would I want you, all of you?” she smirks coyly.

“Who wouldn’t?” he asks.

“You’re not such a great catch,” Lilou intones. “You’ve gotten old and grumpy over the years. Some men age gracefully. You’ve simply aged,” but she says these things tongue in cheek.

“You do know how to flatter a guy.”

A waiter nears with a bottle of wine, shows the label to Ari, works a corkscrew into the bottle, and pours a small amount.

“Pas mal,” Ari says.

“Pick of the litter,” the waiter replies, and pours glasses for the two of them.

“Look,” Ari says. “We are just solidifying our relationship, and this is the time you choose to leave?”

She looks coy. “My career,” she responds. “I’m developing it.”

“Have your career here,” he implores. “I can help. I have connections with Bloomberg.”

She smiles. “You sound like a puppy dog, not a man. Grab me by the hair and take me kicking and screaming to your penthouse,” she jokes.

“Not my style,” he responds.

“No, I guess not,” she sighs. “If it were, you’d keep me forever.”

Just then, Ari feels a hand on his shoulder. Turning into the body lurking behind him, he witnesses the smiling, full face of Daitja Ganesha.

“Holy shit,” he blurts, now turning fully.” I never thought I’d set eyes on you again.” He does not get up nor does he offer his hand in greeting.

“What a wonderful, chance meeting,” Ganesha remarks, his face aglow. “May I join you?”

“This is a private dinner,” Ari replies, turning away.

“Let him sit with us,” Lilou intervenes, smiling. “I want to hear what he’s about these days.”

Ganesha joins Lilou on her side of the booth. He wears a tan woolen jacket with a foursquare over white gabardine pants.

“You look like a rug merchant,” Ari says anxiously.

“Always selling something,” Danesha agrees, failing to take offense. “Look, my friend, don’t be so glum. You are among friends.”

“The way you said this,” Ari responds with steel in his voice, “it’s as if this were not an accidental encounter at all.”

“I did want you to hear what he has to say,” Lilou offers. “It’s unusual and a real opportunity for you.”

Shoots her an acid glance. “So, you have been in contact after all. Despite the fact that this is the man who was responsible for sending me to jail.”

“Yes,” she retorts, “because I think he has something valuable to offer you.”

Suddenly, a commotion out of sight. A waiter slips on the floor and two glasses with water drop crashing onto the floor. “Crap! Cut!” the disembodied voice of Jason Fierst shouts. “Is there any way the waiters can hold on to their fucking glasses? Superglue them to your fingers if you have to.” A scrambling of people quickening their steps in multiple directions around the restaurant for an instant. A waiter on the periphery is hustled off the stage. Lights flicker off, then back on.

“Bunch of hacks,” Paul scowls to Maddie. Maddie turns in the booth to look and smiles.

“Shit happens,” she whispers.

“All right,” Jason’s voice resounds. “Take it from ‘The way you said,’ Paul.”

Paul settles back into a leather cushion and puts on his Ari face, adopting Ari’s calmer tone and obsequious manner. “The way you said this, it’s as if this were not an accidental encounter at all.”

“I wanted you to hear what he has to offer,” Lilou offers.

“So, you have been in contact. Despite the fact that this is the man who is responsible for sending me to jail.”

“Yes, because I think he has something interesting to propose.”

“I’m listening,” Ari says glumly, turning toward Ganesha.

Smiling, Ganesha leans forward. “In my country of India,” he begins, “there is a billionaire, a Mr. Rajeef, a celebrated entrepreneur who made his rupees in cement and construction. This is a widely traveled gent, who purchased hundreds of valuable old master paintings in Europe at auction. Turns out, now that he is in his dotage, he wishes to sell them. These days he is more interested in Andy Warhol than in Da Vinci.”

“Go on.”

“I could use a drink,” Ganesha grimaces.

He calls over the waiter. “Scotch rocks.” Now he returns his attention to the table with the perennial smile reglued on his lips. “So, there are a bunch of paintings sitting in a warehouse in Mumbai that needs to be transferred over here.”

“Why don’t you simply go get them?” Ari asks.

Ganesha reveals his considerable yardage of teeth. “Oh, would that I could,” he replies. “I’m afraid I am now persona non grata in India.”

“And why is that?”

“Let us say that I have offended the sensibility of justice in my country…to such a degree that I have been ostracized. Or to put it another way, were I to set foot there, I would be seized at once and thrown into a black hole.”

Ari looks over at Lilou. “And this is who you want me to do business with?”

“Hear him out,” Lilou pleads, reaching over to caress Ari’s hand. Underneath the table, Ganesha is reaching for Lilou’s knee.

“I shall pay handsomely to the person who flies my private plane to Mumbai, retrieves the paintings, and brings them back to the states.”

“Hmm,” says Ari, “I haven’t been able to find gainful employment in the financial sector after my imprisonment, so I wouldn’t mind earning a few dollars. But you just can’t export hundred old master paintings without revealing their value to customs.”

“True,” responds Ganesha. “True enough. I have considered the pitfalls of going through customs. Consequently, I have employed a custom’s officer in Mumbai airport, a Mr. Bhima, to look the other way when our paintings are presented in front of him.”

“You mean you have bribed him.”

Ganesha waves the comment off. “Just wanted to clear any impediments.”

“And then what?”

“Then,” Ganesha continues, “we, excuse me, you, fly the paintings to the States, to a wee airport somewhere near the Mexican border where I have ample contacts, and then truck them to New York, to a dealer who awaits them, will sort them, and, over a period of time, will auction them off at ridiculously inflated prices.”

“So, none of this is illegal, then?” Ari asks.

“Outside of a tiny payment to the custom’s officer, it’s all above board.”

“And how much are you offering me?”

“Say twenty-five thousand?

“And five per cent of the sale of the paintings?” Ari shoots back.

Ganesha now looks at him and enlarges his smile. “Naughty, naughty,” he wags his finger. “Greed does not flatter you.”

“I’d like some payment, a reimbursement if you like, not only for this job but for protecting you from jail years ago.”

“Aaah, yes, there is that!” Ganesha concedes, sipping his scotch. “There is that. And, of course, that is why I place so much trust in you. When you had an opportunity to trade time against information, when the revelation of my name would have shortened your jail stay, you held out, proving once again that there is honor among thieves. 3 Per cent and you’ve got a deal.”

“Done,” Ari says, now grinning widely, and holds out his hand.

Scene 2

Ari’s escalator rolls by the statues of Indian deity lining the walkway of the Mumbai airport. Now, his heart in his mouth, Ari is on his way to the customs area. Outside, on the tarmac, Ganesha’s plane is gassed up, engines throbbing, loaded with cargo, and ready to take off for the States. But Ari senses that something is wrong. This has been too easy. It was too easy to obtain the paintings, delivered at once by a group of workers who asked few questions. The transfer to the plane took but three hours.

The previous evening, he ate alone in a bar on the beach along the curved expanse of lights, eating a tasty curry something. Washed it down with an Indian beer. He sat up much of the night on his balcony aimlessly watching traffic on the waterway and on the curved beachfront.

In the morning, transferred from his hotel to the airport, he makes his way by the new museum to the customs area.

A man looks up at him. “You are?”

“Ari Bloom.”

“Yes, we have paperwork for you here.”

“I am looking for someone. Would you be Mr. Bhima?”

The man shakes his head. “Mr. Bhima is no longer here,” the man says. “He left us two nights ago.”

“My God,” Ari whispers, his knees buckling. “What happened to him?”

“A case of bribery,” the man offers. “Caught red-handed with bunches of rupees sticking out of his pants that he did not earn legitimately. Not so unusual here, but nobody should get caught at it.”

“Well, then,” Ari says, his handkerchief at his temple, “perhaps you can assist me in moving a few items through the custom requirements.”

“Of course,” the man says. “What are you taking out of the country?”

“Some paintings,” Ari responds, his words echoing in a hollow way.

The man looks up. “Paintings? Old paintings?”

“Yes,” Ari says. “They are about same age as the name of your airport. An emperor’s name, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” the man responds. “A 17th century emperor. So, you have 17th century paintings.”

“Mainly.”

“By which artists?”

“A variety. Dutch, French, Italian, British, a few others.”

“And you own these paintings?”

“Not at all,” Ari replies. “They belong to someone else. I am just transferring them to America.” Ari is smiling weakly, realizing that he is not good at this.

“And the value of these paintings, sir?”

“I don’t quite know. But they must have some value.”

“Please be so kind,” the man beckons to Ari, to sit here in this chair. “I shan’t be but a moment.”

Ari lowers himself, picks up a magazine. In an instant, a uniformed woman comes by and offers him a cup of coffee which he accepts.

A five minutes later, the customs official, flanked by two police men, surround Ari.

“Mr. Bloom, the customs official says, you must know that you cannot take cultural treasures out of India.”

Ari is crestfallen, frightened. “I did not know,” he stammers.

“Further, the list of these paintings, the Van Uden, Mieris, Manfredi, Reni, most of the others, are on a list of stolen paintings. Paintings were heisted from a museum in Holland which somehow made their way to Mumbai. Did you know these paintings were illicit, sir?”

“I knew nothing about that. I thought they were owned by the man who paid me to bring them back.”

“And the name of this man?”

“Mr. Daitja Ganesha.”

The customs official smiles. “Everything is clear now. Almost everything. Mr. Ganesha is known to us as a rather talented criminal. As usual, he remains at a distance where we cannot apprehend him, while others do his dirty work for him. As for you, I’m afraid we will need to hold you until we determine what happens next.”

Scene 3

This room looks familiar to Ari. Puke green, stained walls, swollen pipes crossing above, some bolstered with aluminum foil, others not, the sound of a heater screeching, the scent of stale cigarettes and very old coffee grinds. Into the room enters a stocky man, about 45 years old, who introduces himself as Jackson Myerling. He sports an elaborate badge. He has piercing hazel eyes, balding brown hair verging on white along his temples.

He scans a file which he has brought in with him. “So, you have been arrested before, yes?”

“Yes.”

“And spent time in jail, yes?”

“Yes.”

He looks up somberly. “Yet you do not appear to be the type of hardened criminal we see here day after day. Why did you do this?”

“I had no idea that anything I was doing was illegal.”

Now, a tiny grin forms on Myerling’s face. “Never heard that one before.”

“Nonetheless, it is fact. I was hired to bring back paintings to America. That is all I knew about it. I was told that some wealthy Indian had grown weary of them and wanted to sell them at auction here in America where he believed he could obtain the best price.”

“And you didn’t know that these paintings were stolen?”

“No.”

Myerling leans forward. Ari can see a grease spot on his yellow and blue tie. “Nobody will believe that even if it is true. You do understand that since you were already convicted, almost anything you say will be considered a lie.”

“I’m not a liar.”

“All right,” Myerling says, eyes floating towards the ceiling. “You’re not a liar, but you will go back to jail anyway, because no jury would give ten cents for your story”

“That’s unfair,” Ari says.

“Maybe. So, who put you up to this?”

Ari shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “Look,” he volunteers, I would be happy to tell you every detail I have in my possession about this matter, but I don’t feel good about giving up anybody else.”

“Ari,” Myerling says, “this guy tricked you into believing these paintings were ok, tricked you into believing that you could transport them into America without trouble, and he will ultimately be responsible for sending your ass back to jail. Maybe your butt will fester there a little less if you tell me who this guy is…”

Ari thinks about this for a moment.

“How much less time.”

“Can’t promise a thing.”

Deflated, Ari asks for a glass of water. His forehead feels very hot. He takes several, quick sips of the water.

“Look,” Myerling says, “in this file it says that you told Indian authorities that a Mr. Ganesha paid you. Is that accurate?”

“Yes,” Ari says.

“So, he’s the mastermind, yes?”

“Yes,” Ari says quietly.

“Well then, with your testimony, Mr. Ganesha will go to jail. Would you like him as a roommate?” Ari cannot see that Myerling is heaving with humor.

“God no,” Ari says, shuddering.

“Oh, and here I thought you two were friends, no?” he adds chuckling.

“God no,” Ari repeats.

“I don’t have the power to do this anyway. Just wanted to see how close the two of you are.” Guffawing, Myerling is practically rolling off the chair.

Scene 4

Fingering his orange jumpsuit, Ari is sitting on a log allowing the sun to engulf him. At his back there is a barbed wire fence some twelve feet high. Convicts mill around the yard. A camera pans revealing men weight lifting, others walking, smoking, chatting.

“Cut! You, the two cons jumping rope. Looks too faggy. Try throwing jabs at one another. But no black eyes, get it? Ok. Let’s start all over. Yes, that’s it. Not real jabs, damn it. Play jabs. Got it? Yes, that’s it.”

In a moment, the prisoners who had stopped milling around the yard, are at it again.

A convict walks over to Ari and sits next to him. He does not face Ari, but begins to speak slowly.

“Somebody wants to talk to you.”

Ari turns to him. “Who would that be?”

The con points over to a group of men. “He says he wants to thank you.”

“For what? Who is it anyway?”

Out of the pack of men, Daitja Ganesha emerges walking rapidly towards him.” Ari jumps up.

“Nice afternoon,” Ganesha gushes, his teeth brilliant as the sun illuminates his tanned face.

“It was.” Ari’s head cascades downwards.

“Look, you proved to me once again that there is no honor among thieves, nothing more, nothing less. Do I hold it against you?” Now he grabs at Ari’s shirt. “You bet your ass I do.” His face is but an inch away.

“I didn’t betray you,” Ari gasps, looking up. “They knew it was your plane. They traced it back to you.”

“True enough, but the plane didn’t testify,” Ganesha says almost too quietly.

“I had to,” Ari says weakly. “I had to.”

“They offered you a deal, didn’t they?”

The deal was common knowledge in the joint. He shrugs, then admits it. “A year off.”

Danesha whistles. “I was worth that much? Wonderful. But was a year off enough to compensate for what I am going to do to you?”

“Don’t threaten me,” Ari whispers, sweating profusely.

“But I am,” Ganesha retorts, his teeth dazzling. With that, heeling, he walks off.

Scene 5

The scene shifts to a conversation between Ganesha and Lilou which takes place some weeks previously. The white silk sofa on which they are reclining revolves slowly to face a large curtain which, when withdrawn, reveals the East River shimmering under a full moon.

“Stunning,” Lilou remarks with obvious admiration. She is dressed impeccably as usual. This evening, she wears a discrete tiara. She lifts her head to reveal lips that are blood red.

“You took the words from my heart,” Ganesha says wetting his lips. “Can I fetch you a drink?”

She shakes her head. “I’m concerned about Ari,” Lilou says. “I don’t think he can survive another stay in prison.”

“I doubt that he will,” Ganesha mutters, revealing his teeth.

She looks over at him with a tiny shudder, and reaches out to grasp his arm stiffly.

“I mean I doubt he will stay the entire term of his sentence,” Ganesha says quickly, reassuringly.

“And what about you?”

Ganesha laughs. “I have a truckload of attorneys dealing with the matter. As long as Ari refuses to testify against me then I don’t have much of a problem.”

“When I went to visit,” she says, “they were offering him all sorts of carrots.”

“No, no,” Jason shouts angrily. “Stop! Just stop.” He comes limping out of the wings onto the set. “Maddie, you blew the line.”

“Excuse me?”

“The line doesn’t end with ‘carrots’”. The word is ‘inducements’. Prosecutors are not offering Ari vegetables to squeal on Ganesha. (With this Ganesha roars with laughter and pokes Maddie in the ribs). So, let’s get back to it with your line, Maddie, your correct line, please. Quiet now. All quiet!”

“When I went to see him,” Lilou says, “they were offering him all sorts of inducements.”

Ganesha waves his hands in dismissal. “They always do. They often offer tasty tomatoes, even broccoli to their star witnesses, but they must think him quite a fat rabbit to tempt him with carrots. But I have full faith in him.”

“Oh shit,” Jason shouts slightly exasperated. “Very funny. Can we get back to the script, please?”

At once, serious, Daitja takes her hand in his. “Don’t worry so much.” He presses her hand to his lips.

She looks up softly. “Very nice,” she says.

Now he moves towards her and kisses her. As she undresses, she reassures Ganesha. “Nothing to worry about. I have leverage with Ari as you well know.”

“I count on nothing else,” Ganesha replies, removing his belt. “By the way, if you move down the bed, your flipper transfers into a dildo. Feel free to insert whenever you desire.”

Scene 6

The scene shifts to a prison infirmary. A beige curtain shielding a bedridden Ari is pulled back to reveal a nurse. Sharp lighting above. The nurse bends over Ari’s body, shifts an IV slightly.

“How are you doing today, Ari?”

“Fine,” he responds weakly.

“Pain anywhere?”

“Not really, but I can’t stop my legs from shaking.”

“I’ll inform the doctor,” the nurse notes.

At this point, Maddie takes the clicker into her hands and stops the tape. She turns to Penny. “Sure, you want to see the rest of this?”

“That gruesome?” Penny asks.

“Unpleasant,” Maddie replies. “First, let me get you another drink.” She moves sprightly, fetches a sweetened vodka drink and hands it to Penny. In a minute, she restarts the tape.

“I’ll inform the doctor,” the nurse notes.

“I’m feeling weak,” Ari says.

“Of course, you are,” the nurse says mindlessly.

“I’m nearing the end, am I?”

“Not for me to say,” the nurse replies softly. “We usually let God decide that one.”

“Gotcha,” Ari says with a slight grin. “But God and I are rarely in sync these days.”

“But you’ve known for some time that Creutzfeldt-Jacob is fatal,” the nurse continues.

“No need to remind me of that,” Ari says.

“Of course not,” the nurse exclaims chagrined, and leaves the room.

Here the scene shifts to a bedroom scene in which Ganesha and Lilou are partially undressed in the sumptuous bedroom of Ganesha’s mansion on the outskirts of the city. Crimson and violet damask quilts cover slivers of their bodies.

“Tomorrow,” Ganesha says, for once not smiling, “I have to turn myself into jail thanks to your friend, Ari Bloom.” Gets up, fingers the limestone effigy of the Venus de Milo.

“I’m so sorry,” Lilou says, enfolding her arms around his neck.

“I trust you understand that I cannot allow this betrayal to stand.” Caresses the statue. “I love this piece,” he sighs. “I will miss it sorely.”

She turns away. “You know that Ari and I have been together for a very long time.”

“No, No,” he cuts through her thought, “Ganesha does not permit treachery to remain unanswered.”

“I thought Hindu religion demands piety, acceptance, charity,” she responds, now smoothing her hair back into a pigtail.

“Sometimes I am more American than Hindu,” Ganesha avows. He turns away from the statue and heads to the balcony overlooking the park.

“Please, Daitja,” Lilou says, following him, “Ari is very sick. Let him die naturally.”

Ganesha smiles and, as the moon rises illuminating the city, takes her into his arms.

Scene 7

With this, the scene shifts back to the infirmary. Lights are dim. Ari is sleeping. Monitors to which he is attached beep from time to time, their radiances a sodden green glowing on and off. The creaky door to his room opens and a very large black man enters. Benjamin is a giant, his shoulders hunched high and forwards, a man well over three hundred pounds with hands the size of pineapples, and yet he moves with fluidity.

Ari opens his eyes. “Lilou?”

“Sorry,” the man says not unkindly. “I’m an orderly come to make you comfortable.”

“Thank you,” Ari says.

Benjamin removes a large, embroidered, paisley pillow from an armchair and fluffs it.

“I bring you a message,” he says.

“A message?” Ari repeats, not quite focusing.

“From Mr. Ganesha.”

“Yes, Ganesha. Quite a guy, and a superb thief who somehow always manages to get caught,” Ari grins, opening his eyes. He tries to chuckle, but ends up coughing instead.

Benjamin takes the ornamental pillow and leans over Ari’s face, lowering the pillow gently but firmly. “The message is on the other side of this pillow,” Benjamin whispers. A drop of saliva seeps into the edge of the pillow. Ari’s eyes remain open, blank. He does not try to shout or to speak. Benjamin presses hard. There is no resistance, as if Ari finds it useless to try to forestall the end. Benjamin turns his head slightly to surveil the door while he maintains pressure over Ari’s face. Finally, he straightens, plops the pillow onto a side of the bed, and walks quickly out of the room.

A camera slides in gently towards Ari’s peaceful face. The shot lingers.

“Good God, cut! Damn it,” Jason Fierst shouts. “Paul, I saw you flicker an eyelid. Don’t you know that when you waltz with the Grim Reaper, motherfucker, nothing moves anymore? Isn’t that clear to you?”

Paul sits up and chuckles. “Sorry, Jason.”

“All right, now die like a mensch, please, your bye-bye cake awaits!”

“Practice makes perfect,” Paul chortles, quieting himself, fluffing a pillow underneath his head, and scooting into a prone position. Benjamin leaves the room and the camera pans down to Ari’s immobile face. The shot lingers.

“Cut,” Jason shouts. “Ah Paul, death, how it sought you! Sweet demise! Ladies will weep buckets for you and demand that you arise again from the stone, cold ground, old fart, but there ain’t no return from this death. So on to the farewell party. Right, Paul? Paul?”

-