That night, instead of Gilles’s letter, he turned the utopian novel over in his large hands. He examined the frontispiece.
Ex Libris
This Book Belongs to Marcus Weiner
He was beset by nausea, disgusted by the pretentious ass, the wag who thought a juxtaposition of names — William Morris the showman and William Morris the designer — so incredibly amusing; it was himself he hated. His mind regurgitated an agency mosaic: a speedy mail-room apprenticeship; staff retreats in Santa Barbara; romantic weekends at San Ysidro Ranch (though he wasn’t at all certain it was a ranch, and couldn’t remember who used to go there with him); openings of restaurants and openings of films and openings of little retail palaces filled with ruinously expensive clothes; first-class flights to visit clients the world over — Fiji, Ireland, Paris — lavish vacation jaunts to Venice and Sri Lanka, pyramids and power spots and the thousand wonders of lava beach, fjord and dune; cay, cwm, atoll. All those breakfasts and lunches and screenings with desperately self-assured faces, famous and egregiously unknown. A name wafted back: John Burnham, the colleague to whom he had told his premonitory dream of becoming Chairman of the Disembodied … — but the whole of these meandering mental aerobics, though invaluable to his rehabilitation, would not lead him to Katrina, for too much scar tissue had formed.
Other matters weighed heavily upon him, specifically one that took precedence even over the fate of the orphan girl, and had been stirred by his parents’ restoration of the forbidden fruit of his kleptistic act — the other “News from Nowhere,” his news, needed to be retrieved, for it was a vital piece to the great puzzle of where and what he had been. He had already layed his hands on it, with his little cab ride; and the timing of the trip to Public Storage — coming just before his arrest — seemed a powerful omen. He only hoped the journal (Weiner’s, not Morris’s) would be intelligible. Like the proverbial man who in the middle of sleep jots down the secret of the universe only to find jibberish in the morning, Marcus feared that the diary, ten years in the making, might be useless. Sometimes long-buried things decay when exposed to light and air.
Now each time he saw the hidden earpieces of the men in suits, he thought of her.
He would retrieve his manuscript, and Jane Scull in the bargain.
Marcus had not yet visited with the old man, though on his release from the Towers, they had spoken by phone.
He knew Louis Trotter to be his “father-in-law,” but the scarring earlier noted made him subject to a selective dysphasia that robbed things of context and meaning. Still, such were Mr. Trotter’s patriarchal powers (and so genuine his concern for this creature) that Marcus relied on him for all manner of “pieces of intelligence.” So it was not unusual that he asked his mentor to grant a furlough to visit his dear friend Jane so that he could get back the journal she had in safekeeping; it had been his last request of her. He also told Mr. Trotter it would not be a bad thing for him to help this woman, as she was disabled and might benefit even more than he from the quality of care so kindly made available; and as she — his Janey — was the most decent, hard-luck being he’d ever known and he would do anything for her if ever he had the means. (This, he offered with characteristic charm and humility, not wishing to tax Mr. Trotter’s energies or goodwill.) When the old man consulted Marcus’s therapist on whether a small road trip would be kosher, the lady raised a flag, astutely hypothesizing — for she was no slouch, and even knew her Victoriana — that this new “Jane” (if she existed at all) might in fact be a delusionary stand-in for the other: the Jane Burden of William Morris, the famously adulterous wife of which therapist and client had had numerous discussions early on, in fresh-from-Twin-Towers pre-Zyprexa days. He had been doing so well; she wanted to be sure he wasn’t mixing himself up with Morris again or confusing Jane Burden with Katrina Trotter — or some such combination. If this were the case, the analyst coolly cautioned that Mr. Weiner’s lauded progress would need to be reassessed. They went to his son-in-law’s rooms to talk over the matter. Mr. Trotter was glad to see Marcus good-naturedly assure both himself and therapist alike that Jane, unburdened—this Jane — was indeed the very special, very dear Jane Scull, boon companion and erstwhile shelter mate. The digger stopped short of deeper inquiry, wisely deciding it was none of his damn business.
It would have been easy to enlist one of the men in suits for this particular bit of business, but Mr. Trotter’s unfailing instincts told him otherwise. Because the Monasterio brothers were busy enough with dynastic chores, he called up Sling Blade and for a not inconsequential “palming” had him escort Marcus to SeaShelter. (The moonlighting caretaker had been forced to call in sick; and while Dot Campbell was displeased, she strenuously offered to bring chicken soup to his Culver City apartment — an offer as strenuously rebuffed.) Some of the more conservative advisers warned that an outside visit was premature and that he should be accompanied by two guards at least. The old man waved them off. He had his concerns but was learning to let go; if Marcus ran away again, perhaps then it had been in the stars all along. Louis Trotter would do his best and could do no more.
When they arrived at the Olympic Boulevard sanctuary, things were as they had always seemed. The hangar was mostly empty, as residents were not allowed indoors during the day. The skeleton staff greeted Marcus with vacant looks. They didn’t recognize him, for he had lost a great deal of weight (less as a consequence of imprisonment than of the nefarious conspiracies of nutritionist and trainer). He still wore donated clothes, but of a different ilk than prior castoffs; Mr. Trotter’s tailor, Ray Montalvo, had made stylishly incremental adjustments to a number of long dark coats and crisp white shirts sent over from Barneys and Maxfield’s.
The quondam boarder finally introduced himself, but that was no good either, because he used “Marcus Weiner.” A few of the staffers squinted hard before moving closer. “It’s William!” he shouted at last — they recoiled, startled and uncomprehending, yet captivated nonetheless. Sling Blade handily jumped in to clarify, and had never strung more words together in his life: Mr. Weiner—William—had subsequently been cleared of all charges, he said officiously, and was now a free man. On recovering from their initial shock (having long since envisioned their once-favorite “guest” to be comfortably ensconced on death row), the staffers extended a warm and courteous welcome, and soon a half-dozen gathered around. Curiously, they asked no details of crime or exoneration but did somewhat skittishly presume that he had returned to pick up where he left off. The counselor who not long ago had scanned Le Marmiton’s shelves for tainted treats spoke up, half joking that an official notice of his “acquittal” would have to be presented before William—Mr. Weiner—might actually be reassigned bed and locker. Before Marcus could respond, Sling Blade, with great aplomb, said the gentleman would most definitely not be returning, for his benefactor had arranged that he be well taken care of pending the results of a “massive action against the state involving matters of false arrest, false imprisonment and police brutality, not to mention libel, slander and defamation of character.” The staff took this bulletin with appropriate solemnity.