The Executor Part 19

Now the blur set in.

For days I did nothing. I didn't clean up. I didn't read. What little I ate came out of cans. Pockmarked nights yielded to mornings clotted with dreadful silence, an hour or more of which would pa.s.s before I could get myself out of bed. The bags of groceries sat untouched in the entry hall, right where I'd left them, until the smell overwhelmed the living room and I put them out for collection. I avoided the library, avoided most of the house, including the entire second floor, spending all day in my room, unwashed, unfocused, pacing, waiting for her to call me to conversation, the memory of the weekend playing on infinite loop, d.a.m.ning me. Never have I suffered under the weight of ignorance as acutely as I did in those hours. I didn't know what had happened to her body, where she would be buried, when it would take place. I didn't know if I would have to move out. I didn't know how to keep the power on, pay the water bill; didn't know what to do with the mail. I didn't know if the police were treating Alma's death as a suicide or a homicide ; I didn't know whether they had talked to Eric, and if so, what his reaction had been. I kept taking out Zitelli's card, its corners rounded from my worrying. I resisted calling him, knowing that anything I said had the potential to incriminate me, that anxiety would be misinterpreted as guilt, that my eagerness to see justice done would come off as blame-shifting. It behooved me to hold my peace as long as I could, and so I was stuck doing nothing, with no one to talk to, facing the silence, prosecuted by it. Whatever the official ruling, wasn't the ultimate cause of death my absence? On some level, had I not allowed this to happen-willed it to happen? There were many things I could have done-stayed back, called Drew, called 911-but I had done nothing, an omission tantamount, in my fevered brain, to action. I'd left her alone, and she'd died.

What I do, I do freely.

The existentialists considered suicide the single greatest philosophical problem. If a person is free, by what right do we stop him from taking his own life? Camus, Sartre, Nietzsche-they all give answers, all of which seemed useless just then.

You above all ought to understand Perhaps she had intended to soothe my conscience. If so, she miscalculated; it was impossible for me not to see myself as the audience, indeed the engine, for her final proof.

I AWOKE, too early, to a tremendous racket.

In the hallway, Daciana rocked back and forth, vacuuming.

"Excuse me."

She didn't respond.

I pulled the plug out of the wall.

"Seer, why, I need clean."

As patiently as I could, I explained what had happened. She seemed not to understand, so I repeated myself. Dead, I said.

Now she got it. Her hands flapped, her face arraying itself in Slavic anguish. I wanted to slap her. I had my own grief to deal with; hers by comparison seemed vulgar and theatrical.

"Mees Alma," she keened. "Ooohhh."

I stood there in my pajamas.

"Ooohhh. Ooohhh."

"I'm sorry," I said.

"Ooohhh."

"It's terrible, I know. Look-"

Abruptly she stopped crying and looked at me. "I clean you."

"Me? No. No, I-"

"Please, only to work."

"I cant-"

Hands flung heavenward. "Seer. Ohhhh. Seer."

"I can't have you working here. I can't pay you."

"Yes, okay."

"You're not understanding me."

"Very good job."

"I'm sure that's true, but-"

"Three year," she said. "One, two, three."

"Be that as it may-"

She stuck the plug back into the wall, switched the vacuum on.

"Turn that off, please."

Humming.

"Turn it off. Will you pi-G.o.ddammit." I pulled the plug out again.

Undaunted, she hustled down the hall, headed for the kitchen.

"Wait a second. Wait."

She was washing the dirty dishes I'd neglected. I looked around: fruit flies, crumbs, open jars, the countertop gritty and desquamated. A real horror show.

"I'll make you a deal," I said. "You can work today, but that's it."

"Yes, I work."

"Fine. But listen. Stop-turn off the water, please. Please? Thank you. First of all, I'm not going to be here much longer. You want to work, you can take that up with whoever moves in next. So, today, fine. But that's it. No more. Okay?"

She nodded and hummed.

"And I want you to leave her bedroom alone. Don't go in there. Do you understand me? No bedroom."

"Yes, seer."

"The upstairs bedroom. Don't go in there."

"Yes, I clean."

"No. "I took her by the wrist and escorted her upstairs. "No clean." "I took her by the wrist and escorted her upstairs. "No clean."

Daciana seemed puzzled.

"No," I said. "Okay?"

"You boss."

I went back to bed and covered my head with a pillow.

At the end of five hours she came to me.

"Finish, seer."

"You didn't touch the upstairs bedroom, did you?"

"Yes, seer, no."

Not knowing what that meant, I pointed upstairs. "Yes?"

"No."

"No?"

"No," she confirmed.

"No. Okay. All right. Good. Now. What did she pay you?" I paused. "Money. "Money. How much money?" How much money?"

She looked away, scratching her neck. "One hundred."

"That's what she paid you."

"Okay, eighty-five."

Now I understood: she was giving herself a raise.

"Forty-five," I said.

"Eighty."

"Fifty."

"Seventy-five."

"Fifty-five."

She made a mournful, Wookiee sound.

I opened my wallet, removed three twenties, and held them out. After a brief pause, she s.n.a.t.c.hed the bills and shoved them into her bra.s.siere. In her smirk I saw a bulging hatred-or was it respect? Maybe I had impressed her with my mettle.

"I come next week," she said.

"No. No more. That's it."

She bent to pick up her basket. "See you soon."

THE CALLER IDENTIFIED HERSELF as a.s.sistant to one Charles Palatine, Alma's attorney. Mr. Palatine wished to speak to me in person, the following day, if possible. I made an appointment for two P.M. and went to pick out an outfit. As I fully expected this meeting to conclude with an order of eviction, I hoped that, properly dressed, I might be able to plead for an extension. Unfortunately, thus it was, as ever before: the best I could do was a pair of ink-stained khakis and a blazer. I don't know why I had expected my wardrobe to spontaneously improve. I laid the items out on the bed, then contemplated my shoes. For shame, Mr. Geist. Mr. Geist. One thing One thing I ask of you I ask of you before before I I die. I remembered the twinkle in her eye, the teasing cadence. She had been having a joke with herself at my expense, I realized. She'd known what was coming. Of course she would have. She had planned around my trip, insisting that I go home, insisting that Eric posed no danger. And why would he? He couldn't do anything to her if she did it first. die. I remembered the twinkle in her eye, the teasing cadence. She had been having a joke with herself at my expense, I realized. She'd known what was coming. Of course she would have. She had planned around my trip, insisting that I go home, insisting that Eric posed no danger. And why would he? He couldn't do anything to her if she did it first.

The question, then, was whether she had.

I showered, dressed, and set out to go shopping.

Along Brattle Street was an upscale menswear store I had pa.s.sed many times without entering. Now I stopped to peer in the window. Headless mannequins wrapped in tweed heralded the new semester. The back wall displayed shoes, glossy blacks and chewy browns, set out like pastries. A bell rang as I opened the door, and a white-haired salesman in a trim glen plaid suit came out to greet me.

He measured my feet and brought out several boxes.

"These will last a lifetime," he a.s.sured me.

The leather was stiff, new, unforgiving. I asked if he had something less formal.

He took down a softer-looking shoe. "Mephistos. Wonderful. One pair and you're loyal for life. Let me see if I have your size."

Left alone, I began to feel uneasy. I no longer had a steady source of income, and new shoes seemed less important than, say, a place to live. I had to a.s.sume that Alma would not have objected to my reappropriating the birthday funds in order to stave off homeless-ness. And the notion that buying myself a gift would somehow honor her ... It was beyond cra.s.s. Before the salesman could return, I put on my loafers and slipped out.

The sky was gathering as I stopped at the corner market to buy fresh supplies. I walked the last block to number forty-nine through a full-blown monsoon, stepping into the entry hall, where I paused, dripping, to await her ghost.

Silence.

In the kitchen I switched on the radio and-still in my wet clothes-went to work on a fresh Sachertorte. Sachertorte. Shivering, my teeth clacking out a violent and irregular tempo, I worked frantically, automatically, making a G.o.d-awful mess, caking myself in cocoa and sugar and flour, rattling the whisk against the side of the bowl, banging the jar of apricot jam down on the counter, slamming cabinets and slamming drawers and slamming the refrigerator door. Anything to escape the silence. It was not enough, though, and so I found a station playing loud rock music, screamed along though I did not know the words. And still there was silence, leaking through the s.p.a.ces between notes, running like dirty undammed water across the floor, rising past my ankles, up to my knees, rising until I was waist-deep, chest-deep, drowning in silence; and I turned the volume all the way up, twisting the dial to yield a deafening tide of nothingness. I let the faucet run at full blast. I opened the oven and shoved the cake in roughly, batter sloshing over the edge of the pan, hissing as it touched the hot metal walls. I took a dishtowel and rubbed my rain-drenched hair, rubbed my cheeks raw, stuffed the cloth into my ears, trying to fill the silence with silence and noise, breathing in the bittersweet scent of burnt chocolate. Shivering, my teeth clacking out a violent and irregular tempo, I worked frantically, automatically, making a G.o.d-awful mess, caking myself in cocoa and sugar and flour, rattling the whisk against the side of the bowl, banging the jar of apricot jam down on the counter, slamming cabinets and slamming drawers and slamming the refrigerator door. Anything to escape the silence. It was not enough, though, and so I found a station playing loud rock music, screamed along though I did not know the words. And still there was silence, leaking through the s.p.a.ces between notes, running like dirty undammed water across the floor, rising past my ankles, up to my knees, rising until I was waist-deep, chest-deep, drowning in silence; and I turned the volume all the way up, twisting the dial to yield a deafening tide of nothingness. I let the faucet run at full blast. I opened the oven and shoved the cake in roughly, batter sloshing over the edge of the pan, hissing as it touched the hot metal walls. I took a dishtowel and rubbed my rain-drenched hair, rubbed my cheeks raw, stuffed the cloth into my ears, trying to fill the silence with silence and noise, breathing in the bittersweet scent of burnt chocolate.

PALATINE & PALATINE LLC occupied the top floor of a high-rise on Batterymarch Street. Arriving early, I was shown into an office defined by a mammoth leather desk. Behind it was a mammoth leather chair, and behind that a picture window spreading a magnificent view of Boston Harbor, home to everything from plastic bottles to bodies to leftover particles of the famous two-hundred-year-old tea. If Jesus had walked on its waters, n.o.body would have blinked.

Everything on the walls and in the display cases spoke of wealth and taste, and I was beginning to regret having tried to dress up, a feeling that spiked nastily when the lawyer himself entered in a bespoke suit. Fleshy, humpbacked, stertorous as an outboard motor, he hobbled in and hopped up into the giant chair, combing one liver-spotted hand through the spa.r.s.e remains of a crew cut as he looked me up and down.

"The famous Joseph Geist," he said.

I tried to smile. "Famous to whom."

He didn't answer. He reached for the topmost of a stack of folders, opened it, took out a stapled doc.u.ment, unfolded a pair of reading gla.s.ses, and stared at the text in silence until I began to feel like I was on trial.

"What's happening with her funeral?" I asked.

He peered at me over his gla.s.ses.

"I'm sorry, I'm-I'm not familiar with what's supposed to happen next."