“Whoa. Congratulations.”
“I need to know that you aren’t going to give us any problems. I mean, he doesn’t know about you and me, but after I read that article...”
“After you read that article what?”
“I don’t want you going off like a wild man attacking Verso.”
I see, said the blind man, though I haven’t any eyes. It was a phrase Eagle James used to say at moments of sudden insight. The boy Sovereign loved hearing it.
“You think because of those newspaper articles that I might attack your ex-husband?”
“I know it sounds silly but the papers said that that was what you did.”
“Don’t worry, Valentina. I wish you well and I will stay away from Verso.”
“Your blindness is cured?”
“Yeah,” he said, again thinking of his faux grandfather’s saying. “Listen, Valentina, that call that came in was important. I have to return. You take care and don’t worry about me at all.”
“If you need anything you can call me,” she said.
“I won’t.”
“Hi, Sovereign,” Toni said after one ring.
“What’s up?”
“The prosecutor sent the cops to bring me down to his office,” she said. “They told me that either I was gonna testify against you or they was gonna charge me with attempted murder. They said that they could say that I lured Lemuel in there so you could attack him.”
Sovereign wondered about some legal scholar a thousand years in the future looking back on this case. In the future, he thought, human DNA would be mixed with that of other creatures, and human brains would be augmented with tiny living computers that would make thought much easier, clearer, and unbelievably fast. What would this far-flung thinker suppose about lower intellects making up the crime as they executed inept laws?
“Sovereign,” Toni said.
“I don’t know what to say, honey. You and I both know what happened. What did your lawyer tell you?”
“He said that if the DA was right, I should take his offer and say you planned it.”
“But you know I didn’t.”
“I know I shouldn’t’a been wit’ you right after what you did to Lem,” she said.
“No,” Sovereign agreed, “maybe we should have waited for a little while.”
“What do you think I should do?”
“I suppose the truth isn’t an option.”
“This ain’t funny.”
“No.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“What are you asking me, Toni?”
“They gonna put me in prison, Sovereign. They gonna put me in jail, and the lawyer you give me has told me to turn you ovah.”
“I have to go,” he said.
“What?”
“I have to go and you have to do what’s best for you. We’re both just troglodytes trying to climb out of Plato’s cave.”
“What the fuck are you talkin’ about?”
Sovereign, instead of answering, hung up the landline and disconnected it from the wall. Squatting there, with the slender cord between his thumb and forefinger, he was reminded of the times in his life when he’d cut off contact with family, friends, and loved ones.
Loved ones. He let the words roll around in his mind, trying to make sense of them. Finally admitting to failure in this attempt, he turned off the lights in his apartment, opened the window wide, and sat on the sill for hours, with his eyes closed, listening for sounds in the night.
A little before one the next day Sovereign was leaving his apartment building to go up to Seth Offeran’s. He’d made it only a few steps past the doors when someone called to him.
“Mr. James.”
It was a young white man wearing a green sports jacket and black slacks. The T-shirt he wore was yellow and his tawny hair carelessly brushed.
“Yes?”
“My name is Russ Lamply and I’d like to ask you about the charges leveled against you.”
“I don’t think so.”
“I’m working with the Times and wanted just a few words.”
“ ‘I don’t think so’ is four words. You’ve got yourself a bonus.”
“Did you know the man you fought with?”
“I have to be going. Good-bye, Mr. Lamply.”
Sovereign turned and headed for Christopher Street. The reporter followed.
“I just need a statement for my story,” he said.
Sovereign suppressed a grin and kept on moving. He felt inexplicably happy.
“Your brother was being sought in connection to a bank robbery, wasn’t he?” Lamply asked as they turned right on Christopher and walked east.
“It has been reported that you and the man you attacked, Lemuel Johnson, were fighting over a woman you were both involved with.”
Sovereign was half a step ahead of his ineffectual interlocutor. Lamply couldn’t see the now apparent grin.
“What about the charges of racism leveled against you at your workplace, Techno-Sym? Or your long absence from the job for a supposed case of hysterical blindness?”
Sovereign, without realizing it, picked up his pace.
“The woman who was with Mr. Johnson in your apartment is ready to be a witness against you,” Lamply said, raising his voice.
Sovereign felt his humor turning in on itself. The muscles of his forearms clenched, and the hours he spent exercising each day seemed to be singing. He turned to face the fair young journalist, raised his hand, seemingly intent on striking the young man. Then he yelled, “Taxi!”
The yellow car pulled to the curb and Sovereign forced his angry hand down to grab the handle.
“The trial has already been set,” Lamply said in fast, clipped words. “You’d think that you’d want your side of the story in the paper.”
James threw himself into the backseat of the cab.
“Eighty-sixth and Madison, please.”
“Mr. James,” the reporter called as the car pulled away.
In the back of that taxicab Sovereign was painfully aware of the meaning of the word psychosomatic. His head was spinning and hurting. His fists were clenched and he could not make them release. There was also an ache in his chest and the color red somewhere between his line of vision and imagination. He had lost control, barely escaping the violence welling up inside. The only power left to him was the ability to breathe in, hold the breath for a brief moment, and then exhale.
“Are you okay?” the driver asked, looking up into his rearview mirror.
“Yes,” Sovereign managed to say.
Each breath became deeper, and by the time they had reached 14th Street the HR manager was able to splay out his fingers. He realized that he was sitting at a tilt to the left side and sat up straight.
Once he had regained control he wanted to talk to the driver but couldn’t think of anything to say. The picture on the hack license matched the face in the mirror. The man’s name was Amir Fez. He had a mustache and some hair on his chin — not enough to be called a proper beard. His eyes were dark, and though he was not smiling Sovereign guessed at great humor and concern from his expressions. None of this was the basis for a conversation, so Sovereign sat back and wondered at the possibility that he was a criminal. Maybe the prosecutor had gleaned the threat in Sovereign’s actions and wanted to take steps to protect New Yorkers from his possibly uncontrollable rage.
James took in an enormous gulp of air. He was free to breathe. All people, he thought, had this liberty. The idea of inalienable rights based on a notion of undeniable biological politics calmed him. He closed his eyes and rested his head against the window, becoming conscious of the exhaustion his rage caused.
In the self-imposed darkness, inside the moving vehicle, Sovereign felt lulled and peaceful...