“So, asshole…” he said. “You going to go get me that rope now?”
Henry held his forearm up in front of his face. A bullet, however, goes easily through a forearm, then continues through the skull, and if there is nothing behind it except an open window, goes right on whistling over the rooftops, disappearing in the night on its way to Bullet Heaven. Henry slid to the floor. The young man put the gun back on the table and slumped into a chair. I’ve never seen hide nor hair of the kind of silence that came down on us then.
His elbow propped on the table, he looked at the floor. I took my wig off and tossed it in the corner. I popped the hook of the bra-it fell onto my lap. I was exhausted. I had to stop to catch my breath. The kitchen was a block of translucent resin, shot in the air and endlessly spinning. I never knew that I loved life so much-this is what I thought as I sat there rubbing my busted lip. It hurt a little. You really have to love it to keep on going against all the suffering-to have what it takes to reach out and grab a few aspirin tablets.
There was a bottle of them in the drawer. I always keep aspirin nearby-this shows that I’ve been around. I put three of the little white jobs on my tongue.
“Want some?” I asked.
He shook his head without looking at me. I knew what he was thinking. I didn’t insist. I breathed out heavily, then bent over toward my shoe. The general sensation was one of having left my leg in a campfire, smoldering in the coals at dawn. I grabbed the rope sole and slipped my shoe off delicately, as if I were undressing a sleeping dragonfly. I had to admit that it was a miracle-I’d call it that-a bullet that goes right between two toes, leaving only a bit of torn skin, a little slice of destiny. I stood up, straddling Henry without feeling a thing, then went and drank a tall glass of water.
“I’ll help you carry him downstairs,” I said. “Take him as far away as you can.”
He didn’t move. I went around behind him and helped him stand up. He wasn’t in good shape. He held onto the table without saying a word.
“You and I would both do well to forget this whole affair,” I suggested.
I took a few handfuls of bills out of the satchel and stuffed them in his pocket. He had two or three hairs on his chest, tops.
He didn’t argue.
“You got to learn how to open the door when opportunity knocks,” I said. “Take his legs.”
We dragged him. It was like dragging a dead whale down the stairs. No one outside-minimal moon, small wind. Their car was parked right in front. We jammed Henry into the trunk. I went back upstairs as fast as I could, grabbed the gun with the bottom of my T-shirt, then limped back down. He was already sitting behind the wheel. I knocked on the glass.
“Open the window,” I said.
I slipped him the gun.
“When you’re done, go bury this at the North Pole,” I said.
He nodded, looking straight ahead.
“Drive smart,” I told him. “Don’t get noticed.”
“Yes,” he muttered.
I sniffled, both hands on the roof of the car. I looked up the street.
“Remember what Kerouac said,” I sighed. “The jewel-the real center-is the eye within the eye.”
I gave the fender a slap as he pulled away. I went back upstairs.
I took care of my foot. I cleaned the place up a little-the urgent things. To tell the truth, it was almost as if nothing had happened. I put the chili back in the saucepan over a low flame. I put the music back on. The cat came in through the window. The night was calm.
“I saw the lights on,” he said. “Were you writing…?”
“No,” I said. “Just thinking.”
Philippe Djian
