The Exquisite

THREE

I stole a book.

He said to me, dear boy, you are a thief so steal something.

How do you know I’m a thief?

Because it is dark. Because you are in my apartment. Because I did not ask you to come. Because you have confessed to having taken the trouble at least to attempt to monitor my movements. Take something, then, perhaps, knock me down, then come back for dinner tomorrow night and we will talk.

What? I said.

He smiled, stood up with a rustling of plastic-coated wires, and gestured with his head toward all the things, the hundreds of things, that were in the room.

Come back tomorrow night at nine o’clock. I will feed you fish and we will talk.

Fish? I said.

With fine crackers. It doesn’t matter whether you are on time or not.

You want me to come back? I said.

Yes, he said. But not to steal. That’s only tonight.

You’re inviting me to steal something from you.

Yes.

In other words, you’re saying “take something.”

He laughed his little crushed-lightbulb laugh and looked around the room.

All right, take something, Henry, he said. It’s not difficult. The difficult part was walking through my door.

O.K., good, great, I said. I shrugged, and cracked my neck and three fingers to cover the fact that I felt equal parts spooked and intrigued, put my hand into the shadows and picked up the first portable item it touched, walked over and sort of shoved the item’s owner a little on the shoulder so that he fell back with a light oof and a crinkling of wires into his big chair, then made for the door. When I got downstairs and out onto Eighth Street I took the time to confirm that what I had grabbed was a musty old book, which didn’t smell very good. I’m not at all against reading, in fact I read a lot, but not books that smell like something that has spent time in one of New York’s omnipresent mystery puddles. I tossed the book into the trash can next to the entrance to Tompkins Square Park, thought, well, that was pretty crazy, then went down to the Horseshoe, on the corner of Seventh and B and had a couple. Couple more. Thing is I’d done pretty well with a score I had made while I was in the hospital and I still had plenty in my pockets. Going to Mr. Kindt’s had just been gravy and it didn’t matter that I’d left without anything worth keeping. I asked the guy behind the bar — Job was his name — for a shot and told him to help himself.

Thank you, Job said.

You’re welcome, Job.

We drank.

Two more, I suggested.

Job poured two more.

You ever feel spooked and intrigued, Job?

At the same time?

More or less.

I’m not sure.

I told Job about my encounter with Mr. Kindt.

Mr. what? said Job.

I hear you, I said.

Job grinned. He went off to help a couple of customers.

He came back.

What’s your real name, Job? I asked him.

Job’s my real name.

I mean your name before it was Job.

Anthony.

Anthony’s a nice name.

Might be, but it’s not my name.

Fair enough.

Job moved off. I drank some more, then some more, and I thought about Mr. Kindt saying “dear boy,” and I both liked it and I didn’t, and I thought about seeing him naked and bathed in the green light, and wondered what it would be like to have all those wires attached to me. I shivered. For a second, I could remember having had wires attached to me, could remember my aunt leaning close with her roll of tape, her graying hair falling over her face, could remember the flecks of bacon fat on her chin. Actually, I had never had wires attached to me. Remember isn’t the right word. Henry boy, sweet boy, I could “remember” my aunt saying. I shivered. I smelled fish and felt mist, then I was sitting in a booth and someone was whispering in my ear: five hundred dollars.

Sold to the drunk biped in the booth, I whispered back.

There’s a little shop at Forty-eighth and Lex. Doesn’t look like much on the outside. Ask for Mr. Singh. He’ll give you five hundred dollars for it and that’s if you don’t feel like bargaining.

Tulip. Sitting close and spinning. For a second she looked a little like a pale yellow pinwheel, like the retinal afterimage of a fizzing golden firework. Only she was wearing gray and had on one of those aviator’s hats, which completely covered her blond hair and set her eyes to sparking and crackling, so that what I should have been seeing in the money end of my similes was something opalescent, azure, electric blue.

Tulip, I said. I was just talking to Job.

The bartender? His name’s not Job, said Tulip.

She was running her finger across the book I had tossed in the garbage can. It was sitting open on the table and there was a diagram of the interior of an arm. Vein system. Musculature. Old stuff. From back when surgery meant ugly things for everyone except the rats. Looking at it, I thought first of Manhattan and the deep hole that had been punched in it, then of this movie I’d seen in which a king had his arm operated on. He died. There was a long battle for succession. The country was laid to waste. Years passed. Hope began to glimmer in the east. The people prepared themselves. They set off on long marches and learned new songs. Then hope faded and the rats took over. I was guessing this book was about that old. It was written in Greek and Latin. Lots of significant-looking words. I tried to read one. No luck.

So what’s his name? I said.

Anthony.

Good-looking guy.

I put my finger on some delicately articulated vein system, ran it down a leg. There were shadows everywhere. It was like I was back at Mr. Kindt’s.

He was home. I watched him leave, but he was home anyway, Tulip. He was sitting there, naked. He told me to take whatever I wanted.

He’s a little strange that way.

He was also hooked up to a heart monitor. He told me to steal something, then he invited me to dinner.

I know.

How?

Because I was there.

Where? In one of the big jars?

She laughed.

What’s going on, Tulip?

Nothing, I told him about you and he wanted to meet you.

Why?

Because I told him he’d like you.

You set me up.

If you like.

How do you know him?

I just know him. A friend introduced me. She paused. She looked at, I think, something about her fingernails. Sometimes I do things for him, she said.

Things? I said.

She didn’t answer.

I let it go.

Who is he? I asked.

An old guy, lonely, from upstate, but he’s been in the city for years. I don’t know. He’s eccentric, he does some business.

I looked at Tulip. She was not smiling. I was drunk and didn’t feel well. The bar was full of smoke and colored light.

I barely know you, Tulip, I said.

That’s true, Henry.

How did we meet?

We met at a party.

Was it a good party?

We didn’t stay.

We didn’t go home together either.

No, we didn’t.

What does he mean about fish?

He likes fish. Don’t you like fish?

I thought about fish. I thought about the book, with its rotten puddle smell and stained pages and cross sections and strange diagrams.

Mr. Singh? I said.

She nodded, stood up.

I stood up. Or thought I did.

Good-night, Henry, I’m leaving now, she said.