cigar. “I can get you six figures, on spec.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“I’ll call you back tomorrow.”
Matthew hangs up the phone and stares at the wall some more. His funds are less than limited. A few thousand. He is an independent, with no newspaper empire behind him. No long-term disability. His medical insurance will eat this up. He will never get any more. Bad risk. Very shortly, he will be destitute. If I’m still alive. Like mother, like son?
Writing a book might at least buy time in which he can sort through things and come to a decision. The knowledge he now carries irrevocably, heavy as a sack of skulls, irrevocably changes the world. There is so little hope, and no purpose to anything. The world is exposed. It is horror, and all his belief in the power of observation proven to be folly. And if his mission fails, if it turns out there is nothing to understand, no answer, then he knows very well how to permanently stop the pain. Until then, he might as well write a book, maybe even explain a thing or two.
The agent calls again the next day. “I suppose we should talk,” Matthew says.
“Good man,” says Brent Cappilini.
Chapter Three
Matthew wakes with a start. It is how he always wakes now, as though someone has yelled in his ear. He opens his eyes, looks out the bedroom window onto the courtyard. Dark out there, but that means nothing, it might be morning, might be afternoon, even. The bed is as hard as an army cot. That’s the problem with furnished apartments. That and the crucifix over the bed. Must remove that . He rolls onto his side, sits up slowly and hangs his head in his hands. Coffee. Must have coffee. He looks at his feet and notices for the first time the broken blood vessels around his ankles. When had they appeared? He feels sick to his stomach. Bathroom. The morning gag. Brush teeth. Do not look too closely in the mirror. Wash. Shaving optional. Forget shaving.
Shuffle into the kitchen. Root around in the sink for a semi clean cup. Plug in the coffee maker. While coffee brews, go into the living room. The two large windows here tell him it is morning. Turn on the pint-sized television. Blah-blah-blah. Turn it off again. Go back to the kitchen. Open the refrigerator. Steak. An old bag of salad. A wrinkling tomato. Half a dozen cans of beer. Some goat cheese. A bowl of fat green olives marinated in garlic. Whoa. Stomach not ready for that one. Ah, milk. Coffee in cup, milk in coffee. Cup in hand. Sip . Ah. Coffee brain fizzle. There’s a dance in the old boy yet.
He carries the cup into the living room, to the cubbyhole on the other side of the main room. He congratulates himself again on finding a top floor apartment at 11 bis, rue de Moscou. He sees the apartment as monastic, with aspirations. He is trying to step out of the husk of his past here and wants as little as possible tugging at his sleeve. If he is going to emerge, he must do so unencumbered. If he is not going to emerge, he wants to leave nothing behind. The price is right and more importantly it is a top floor, so his claustrophobia is not a garrotte across his throat. There is no bang-bang-bang of overhead footsteps, and the light is good. The syrupy light of late August flows in through the open window, across the cluttered, battered old table that serves as Matthew’s desk. It soothes him, as does the view itself.
The place du Dublin is not a particularly pretty square and it is in a small corner of the 8th arrondissement behind the Gare Saint Lazare where there isn’t a single tourist attraction. Le Primavera Bistro on the corner sets up red tables and chairs and yellow umbrellas beneath the poplars whenever there is the least hope of suitable weather. There is also a green fountain that, like the quality of this morning’s light, pleases him. There is something about the miniature temple, with its steady streams of water flowing over
“I’ll think about it.”
“I’ll call you back tomorrow.”
Matthew hangs up the phone and stares at the wall some more. His funds are less than limited. A few thousand. He is an independent, with no newspaper empire behind him. No long-term disability. His medical insurance will eat this up. He will never get any more. Bad risk. Very shortly, he will be destitute. If I’m still alive. Like mother, like son?
Writing a book might at least buy time in which he can sort through things and come to a decision. The knowledge he now carries irrevocably, heavy as a sack of skulls, irrevocably changes the world. There is so little hope, and no purpose to anything. The world is exposed. It is horror, and all his belief in the power of observation proven to be folly. And if his mission fails, if it turns out there is nothing to understand, no answer, then he knows very well how to permanently stop the pain. Until then, he might as well write a book, maybe even explain a thing or two.
The agent calls again the next day. “I suppose we should talk,” Matthew says.
“Good man,” says Brent Cappilini.
Chapter Three
Matthew wakes with a start. It is how he always wakes now, as though someone has yelled in his ear. He opens his eyes, looks out the bedroom window onto the courtyard. Dark out there, but that means nothing, it might be morning, might be afternoon, even. The bed is as hard as an army cot. That’s the problem with furnished apartments. That and the crucifix over the bed. Must remove that . He rolls onto his side, sits up slowly and hangs his head in his hands. Coffee. Must have coffee. He looks at his feet and notices for the first time the broken blood vessels around his ankles. When had they appeared? He feels sick to his stomach. Bathroom. The morning gag. Brush teeth. Do not look too closely in the mirror. Wash. Shaving optional. Forget shaving.
Shuffle into the kitchen. Root around in the sink for a semi clean cup. Plug in the coffee maker. While coffee brews, go into the living room. The two large windows here tell him it is morning. Turn on the pint-sized television. Blah-blah-blah. Turn it off again. Go back to the kitchen. Open the refrigerator. Steak. An old bag of salad. A wrinkling tomato. Half a dozen cans of beer. Some goat cheese. A bowl of fat green olives marinated in garlic. Whoa. Stomach not ready for that one. Ah, milk. Coffee in cup, milk in coffee. Cup in hand. Sip . Ah. Coffee brain fizzle. There’s a dance in the old boy yet.
He carries the cup into the living room, to the cubbyhole on the other side of the main room. He congratulates himself again on finding a top floor apartment at 11 bis, rue de Moscou. He sees the apartment as monastic, with aspirations. He is trying to step out of the husk of his past here and wants as little as possible tugging at his sleeve. If he is going to emerge, he must do so unencumbered. If he is not going to emerge, he wants to leave nothing behind. The price is right and more importantly it is a top floor, so his claustrophobia is not a garrotte across his throat. There is no bang-bang-bang of overhead footsteps, and the light is good. The syrupy light of late August flows in through the open window, across the cluttered, battered old table that serves as Matthew’s desk. It soothes him, as does the view itself.
The place du Dublin is not a particularly pretty square and it is in a small corner of the 8th arrondissement behind the Gare Saint Lazare where there isn’t a single tourist attraction. Le Primavera Bistro on the corner sets up red tables and chairs and yellow umbrellas beneath the poplars whenever there is the least hope of suitable weather. There is also a green fountain that, like the quality of this morning’s light, pleases him. There is something about the miniature temple, with its steady streams of water flowing over
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