East of Suez Read Free

year ago and I could find no evidence of a check in a later letter or in the pile of papers that Anna had dealt with. But I accepted the happy ending as payment of sorts. The cash didn’t seem to matter so much just then. Which only goes to show how out of it I was that first day back on the job.
    I used to pride myself on how quickly I could get through the paper that accumulated on my desk while I was working on a case or was on holiday. I loved to fill up the wastepaper basket with advertising, requests for magazine subscriptions, and other trash. Now it would take me hours, and I resented it. A blockage had appeared in the hourglass of my time, the flow of the sand had been impeded. Reading was central to my life. Now it was my hang-up. I was like an assembly line with a breakdown. A Charlie Chaplin movie.
    In the closet I found a few articles of clothing that looked only vaguely familiar: a jacket, a pair of gray trousers, a shirt with a necktie still attached to the collar, and a couple of pairs of shoes. The shoes were dusty, and turned up at the toes, looking like artifacts from a display in a museum: “Here are the shoes worn by the suspect at the scene of the crime; circa 2002.”
    After sorting through the closet, the drawers, and the filing cabinet, I sat down again and leaned back just to see if the usual squeak could be anticipated. I was testing the continuity of my memory. The fact that I even remembered was a testimonial to what remained of my pia mater . The phone rang.
    “Cooperman,” I said.
    “Benny, it’s me. I thought I’d find you at the office.”
    “Hi, Anna! Yeah, I’ve been cleaning up some of the mess. How long have I been away from here?”
    “It’s been a long time. You know this is September. The season of ‘mists and mellow fruitfulness’ is upon us. What are you really up to?”
    “Just trying to get to know the guy who used to work here.”
    “Good idea. Like Danton said, it’s worth the effort.”
    “Who’s Danton? You didn’t tell me about him. Are you trying to let me down gently?”
    “He’s long gone. No threat. You’re not getting depressed again, are you?” I’d had a bout or two of that since graduating from the rehab hospital. It was normal, they said.
    “No, Anna, I’m thinking happy, constructive thoughts. I’m so healthy I’m already thinking of breaking for lunch. Are you available?”
    “Nope. I’ve got a class. But I’ll see you after five or so.”
    “I’ll give you a progress report when I see you.”
    After I hung up the phone the room seemed more silent than when I first came through the door. It made me wonder about people who are always on the phone to one another every day. Does it take the place of a relationship? I don’t know.
    Looking around the room, I tried to figure out how many cardboard boxes I’d need to clean the place out. I could store the files in Pa’s basement until I could legally dispose of them. The furniture could go to the junk dealer on Queenston Road whose name I couldn’t remember.
    I should mention the fact that while I was never a hotshot at remembering names, since my time in hospital names are the hardest things to recall. As soon as I tried to reach for a name in my mind, it flitted like a sparrow out of sight. This didn’t happen only with obscure names, it happened with those I knew best. The list included my brother and even Anna. The rule seemed to work this way: most of ancient history was available to me, courtesy of James Palmer and Miss Lauder, my high school history teachers, but contemporary names seemed to rest intact until I reached out to grab one of them. My memory was a fishbowl and proper nouns swam about avoiding my fingers with skill and cunning. As soon as the moment passed, when I no longer needed the word, it slipped quietly back into its place and I could say it to myself. Of course, by that time, the occasion had passed and I stood stupidly with a no-longer-needed name in my