I prop my head up on some pillows and slowly look around the room. There is nothing pleasing about it. It’s plain and worn down. It looks how I feel. The curtain is directly next to the bed and I draw it back. Sunlight streams past me, making the room look both brighter and worse. I have travelled here to nowhere, worried that if I stayed where I was, the bastard would have changed his mind and thrown me in jail. A few of the security guards had escorted me back to my apartment to gather up my belongings, to the drug store to buy gauze for my wrists, to the bank to withdraw whatever I had left and close my account, and finally to the train station. They did all of this with meticulous calm. They had their instructions and carefully guided me through each step. And the entire time I felt that if I had done anything out of line, even if I had made the wrong sudden movement, they would have killed me on the spot.
I go to the bathroom and shower, taking extra care to clean my damaged wrists, cleaning them carefully and then cleaning them again, as if they had been bitten by someone rabid. When I get out of the shower I take new gauze and re-bandage. As I do so, I think again about suicide. Is that the price for absolute failure? Could anything possibly happen in my life now that would redeem me? I also think about writing a book, my own autobiography, that would explain to the world everything that had happened and why. But who would publish such a book? Even to begin thinking about it seems impossible. I feel especially interested in writing about my time working for the people I hate. To reveal some of the hidden daily corruptions that lie just a few inches behind their advertised good image. But there are millions of books published every year exposing the world’s corruption, and the corruption of the world only increases. Each book, in its own way, has teeth but nothing to bite into. No clear way to attack. There are also millions of books each year pushing for things to remain the same, or teaching you how to make money at the expense of others. Everything balances out, but the balance is so deeply imperfect, always tilting further and further towards the worst.
Of course there is no point thinking this way, I try to tell myself as I step out into the much too dusty street and sunlight. You only think these things because your one and only plan was an overwhelming failure and this fact has affected your mood. I had asked at the counter which way was downtown, and find myself slowly walking in that direction.
1.
Today I did something strange: I re-read my own autobiography. Unsurprisingly, it was a fast read. I finished almost the entire thing on a single flight. So many aspects within it surprised me, incidents I had forgotten or that didn’t happen quite the way I recounted them. I am now trying to recall exactly why I agreed to write it in the first place. Why was I so forthcoming, so elaborate? I know myself, that I care what others think far more than anyone might suspect or realize. That I care about stupidities such as legacy. When I meet new people, I sometimes feel I can tell whether or not they’ve read the book by the way they treat me. Those who haven’t read it are easier to charm, while those who have are slightly on edge, almost suspicious. When I started the book I was convinced it was time to retire, but now, as they gracefully try to ease me out, push me towards a more symbolic leadership position, it seems I once again want to fight, hang on just a few more years.
The press release calls it an ‘extensive research trip,’ but I now realize it is something much closer to probation. I am travelling for work, having meetings, seeing many of our operations around the world. But back at home my decisions are no longer acted upon with lightning speed. I am still in charge, yet not in charge to anywhere near the degree I once was. But is this actually the case? Of course no one will look me in the eye and tell me so, that anything has changed. Instead they tell me to keep travelling. This trip was originally my idea, my decision. I thought it would be good to get some perspective on the overall scope of our organization. But when I boarded that first airplane, it seems I also showed my throat.
In Germany, I am in a meeting with several executives from what was once a local media group consisting of forty television and radio stations. They are somewhat less than thrilled to be meeting with me, fearful that my visit equals imminent cutbacks. I assure them I’m only here on a sightseeing tour, but they seem unconvinced. When I use words like ‘creativity’ or ‘vision’ they bristle. I can feel that this is not the way they do things. They prefer careful research and planning. I change tack, expressing somewhat less-than-genuine interest in their lengthy statistics and projections, how they hope to slowly dominate the national market over the next twenty years. I casually mention that I look forward to seeing their plans come true and, as I do so, one of them, I think he might be the youngest — it is a family business, so perhaps he’s even the grandson or great-grandson of the original founder — looks straight at me with a look I can’t quite decipher. I ask him if anything is wrong and his answer bothers me all the way back to the hotel. He says, less than tactfully he later admits, that no, it’s nothing. He just can’t imagine I’ll still be around in twenty years. It was just a strange thought for him.
2.
The downtown strips of small towns like these are endlessly alike. I have only been to a few in my life and yet, in my memory, can barely tell them apart, nor can I tell any of them apart from the one I currently find myself in. I am looking at the street, at the storefronts, and thinking of what I did wrong. The piano wire was too nostalgic, too ineffective. A knife or gun would have been better. I am wondering if there is any way I can go back, try again, or convince someone else to go in my place. Or if there’s another billionaire I could train my sights on, turning the first attempt into a test run. What if I tell myself it had only been a chance to try things out, to carefully learn from my mistakes. I can feel the roll of bills in my pocket and wonder if I should buy anything, new clothes that would be as inconspicuous as possible. I am back in my dishwasher’s attire, having left the suits, anything that was expensive, far behind.
I am about to go into a diner for cheap coffee when I see something ahead, at the very end of the road. It’s a lot of people, they look almost like a mirage, since they are far away in the heat. With nothing else to do in life, since I don’t even know why I’m here, I start walking towards them, and it is a few long minutes before I realize it’s a much larger crowd, they are much further away, than I originally thought. By the time I reach them I’m sweating hard, the sun here is cruel, and I’ve arrived at the far edge of town, which opens out towards a field, though there is more dirt than grass. In front of me are maybe a few thousand people doing nothing. I stand at the edge of the crowd gazing into it, thinking that I have no idea where I am or what I’m looking at. A small cluster of men stand directly in front of me, and I begin to eavesdrop. Only moments later do I realize that they’re speaking my language, the language from childhood. I hear it so rarely now that sometimes I almost forget. A part of me must believe I have left that language behind forever, but here it is again, directly in front of me, like a message from the past.