“It was... me,” the old man’s voice chimed to life. “I hired... Rockatansky.”
Jimmy stared at the old man.
“You have... a clean slate... a kingdom. Nikolai... just would have... been in the way. Harold and you were... a terrible... match.”
“So you had me kill him for nothing?” Jimmy jabbed a finger at Harold’s dead body.
“You needed to... make a state... ment. I am... done... tired of... this prison.” Poppa’s fingers tapped away as he blinked out his thoughts. “I am past the... point where even... the shitty parts... of long ago seem... better than... the present.” His fingers stopped and his printer spat out a single sheet of paper. “Visit me in your dreams... son.”
Jimmy lifted the paper from the tray. It was a bank transfer order. Another ten million US dollars.
He had time to read it once before the window exploded. The heavy slug drilled through Poppa, through his magical chair, and into the aquarium, sending the candy-colored fish to the floor in a massive surge of water. Poppa teetered in place for a second before the second shot came whistling in and he stopped being alive.
Part III
On the Edge
Journal of an Obsession
by Johanne Seymour
Translated from French by Katie Shireen Assef
Plateau Mont-Royal
I’ve always been afraid of the void: a black hole, an empty glass, a vacant heart, a blank page... I have no confidence in the metaphysical platitude that the universe is allergic to vacuums and needs to fill the holes. I fear emptiness more than death itself. In my case, that’s saying something.
Every inch of my apartment is taken up. Wherever my gaze falls, there’s something interesting to look at — paintings, books, side tables, lamps, empty wine bottles. I hoard so that I am never without.
I live on the ground floor of a building in the Plateau Mont-Royal. In the summer, my backyard abounds with all sorts of plants and wildflowers. In the winter, I keep the curtains closed.
I have mistresses, one for each day of the week, and a few I cultivate for special occasions. I have many friends who fill the quiet moments — men, women, even children. I’m only alone when I write, and even then I’m not so alone; I have my characters to keep me company.
I’ve managed to control my obsession.
Until now.
I write in a popular café in the neighborhood, not because it’s trendy, but because it’s always crammed with people. I go early in the morning, sit at my usual table in the back, and stay until late in the afternoon. The owners tolerate me because I’m fairly well-known — they think I attract customers.
On one such day, I ordered a large latte and settled down at my table. I scanned the room as I plugged my laptop charger into the wall outlet. As usual, the assorted species of bobos and hipsters lined up along the counter to order their morning fix, while lumbersexuals wolfed down huge breakfast sandwiches as if they were actually going to spend the day chopping wood. That’s the Plateau, for you — you’re an artist, even when you’re not. After I’d scanned the crowded café, I was ready to concentrate on my work. But then I saw him, the man who would lead me to my demise.
He was roughly fifteen years my junior, a handsome man, slender yet muscular, though I doubted he worked out much; he seemed naturally fit. He smiled at whoever would look at him, confident as he strode through the shop. I noticed he was carrying a laptop.
He sat down at a small table in front of the café. I wondered how he managed to find an available seat at this hour — the shop was swarming with customers. The barista, who normally stayed behind the counter at all costs, went over to the man and took his order, removing a small Reserved card from his table. I nearly choked on my coffee.
He took out his laptop and plugged it into the wall. Like me, he scanned the room before beginning his work. Who is he? I wondered. A lawyer? An architect? Is he answering e-mails? Playing around on Facebook or Twitter? One thing was for sure — he had a lot to write. The sound of his fingers clacking keys exasperated me. You’d have thought he was a keyboard virtuoso, the Mozart of word processing.
“Is everything all right, sir? Would you like a glass of water?”
I was sweating in streams, which is probably why the waitress stood before me, a concerned look on her face.
“No, no. I’m fine.”
“Can I get you anything?” she asked impatiently.
“Another latte?”
She turned and walked back behind the counter, but not before I glimpsed the disappointment on her face. Would she prefer I free up the table? My table? The one I had occupied every day since the café opened?
Panic stung my chest.
I tried to tell myself that my imagination was taking me for another ride, but I couldn’t help but think the worst. Would I have to find another café to write in? While in every other part of my life I’d set up escape routes, detours, emergency exits, here I felt totally unprepared.
“You okay?”
Mozart stood beside my table, staring at me. With a superhuman effort to not make eye contact, I said, “Yes, thank you. It’s nothing.”
I thought he’d go back to his spot at the front of the café, but he didn’t budge. I finally looked up at him.
“You don’t remember me?”
“No. I’m sorry.” I wasn’t sorry for anything. Why did I say that?
“Well, it’s true that there were a number of us taking your seminar.”
A writer!
“What can I do for you?” I asked. “I should warn you, I don’t read other people’s manuscripts.”
Mozart smiled. “Don’t worry. I just wanted to say hello.”
Then he went back to his table and started clacking away on his keyboard, as if his fingers had a life independent of his brain, or a direct connection to it.
The waitress set my second latte on the table.
“You sure you’re okay?” she asked. “Something to eat, perhaps?”
Determined not to abandon my post, I said, “I’ll have your lumberjack special.”
She turned and walked away, and again I felt that she’d prefer I gulp down my coffee and get out of there.
I couldn’t understand how I’d become persona non grata overnight. I’d never caused a scene at the café (well, once, but a long time ago), and my reputation maintained a pleasant status quo amongst my peers. So why did I suddenly feel like a leper?
I knew I was getting carried away. I attributed my state of mind to my usual paranoia, and tried to concentrate on my writing.
When I was starting out as a writer, I made a habit of rereading, each morning, whatever I’d written several days before. I thought of this as a kind of warm-up. And so I read over the twenty pages I had written in the last five days. A smile of satisfaction spread over my face. It was good. Very good. Excellent, even. Probably the best thing I’d ever written. My swan song.
The thought paralyzed me.
Was it a sign? Was I going to die? Was that what had colored this day from the very beginning? A presentiment of my imminent death? I shook myself out of it. I wouldn’t give into paranoia. Why couldn’t I write something exceptional without thinking I’d die because of it? I took a deep breath and read the pages once more. I was so moved that I could hardly believe I’d written these lines. Finally, I was writing the novel that would catapult me to fame, that would be my ticket to the hall of literary heroes, alongside Harper Lee, J.D. Salinger, Kerouac...