New York is swell, you think, as you leave the brightly lit shop, warmed in the body though not in the heart, and get back onto the glittering, grimy street. As you walk toward the neon billboards and giant television screens of Times Square you think about New York’s swellness in almost cosmic terms, wondering where it begins and where it stops, and what is all that why in the middle, and then you leave off thinking and are just walking, past face after face backed by stone, steel, and dark brick, down into the subway and then out again at Fourteenth and First, where your mind flicks back on and you realize you just spent five bucks in a porn shop looking at what now seem like grotesqueries, pure and simple, and that you’re broke and hungry and that, even though things have been much better lately, even though New York is so swell in so many ways, things are still far from perfect, far from soothing, far from, moment to moment, ideal. So you head over to see Mr. Kindt, your dear friend, who often feeds you, who often talks to you at great length about not uninteresting things, who frequently eases the pain of parting, now that you have exhausted your own supply of funds, at the end of the evening. Mr. Kindt, who greets you at the door on this particular night, this night that is now in question, before you’ve even rung the bell and who says to you, come in, come in, Henry, I’m so glad you decided to drop by. It feels like it has been ages. What on earth have you been up to? Was it just the day before yesterday that you accompanied me to Russ and Daughters? There is a little of the pickled whitefish left and some dried pears. You can take it with you later. Where have you been? Never mind. I’m so happy to see you. Your timing couldn’t be more perfect. Mr. Kindt, who says, you see, I would like, this evening, to introduce you to a murderer.
A murderer? you say.
He has ushered you into the front room. There is some unfamiliar outerwear hanging on the eighteenth-century cherrywood coatrack. You hear voices. You go into the living/dining room, Mr. Kindt’s hand on your elbow, his breathing a little louder than usual. A small man with gray hair, deep wrinkles, and large, indistinct features turns toward you.
Here he is, says Mr. Kindt.
Hello, you say.
Hello, says the murderer.
He cordially shakes your hand and asks you how you do and you tell him that the day has been difficult for various reasons, but, as is always the case when you walk through Mr. Kindt’s front door, things have improved.
I know exactly what you mean, says the murderer.
You are both too kind, but there is really no need, says Mr. Kindt.
Then you eat, the four of you, no, the five — you, plus Mr. Kindt, plus Tulip, plus the murderer, plus the murderer’s guest, who is just returning to the room from the toilet with a cell phone pressed against her ear. She is a knockout. She is almost as tall as Tulip, has gorgeous mahogany skin, broad shoulders, and mile-long legs, and is bald. She slips her tiny phone into an orange shoulder bag.
I hope it’s all right, she says, not to you but to Mr. Kindt. I’ve asked a friend to join us.
Mr. Kindt does not mind. He says as much and smiles, and when he smiles his little blue eyes are sucked back into his face and his rather bad but not unsightly teeth are exposed. He waves his hand over the bowls of nuts and olives and cubed Gouda that are spread out over the table. He says, we will just nibble and chat until they get here.
We nibble and chat. The knockout tells a story about a cab that almost ran her over and how she took off her heels, chased it down at the next light, and smashed out one of its rearview mirrors with a rock. You don’t believe a word of the story but admire the way she tells it, punctuating her sentences with the brisk ingestion of carrots and cheese cubes. You know this is not how she is doing it, but each time you look away you have the impression that she is lifting the cheese and carrots with a single finger and popping them into her mouth. There are numerous embellishments to the story. You all listen, although for part of her account, the murderer and Mr. Kindt put their heads together and murmur. While she speaks, you try lifting an olive with your index finger and send it rolling toward Tulip, who doesn’t notice its approach. It leaves a line of oil on the dark wood, a faint trace of its pointless trajectory. The murderer, whom you think you have just heard say “the Benny problem,” although it could just as easily have been “the Lenny or the Kenny problem,” pulls his head away from Mr. Kindt’s, reaches over, winks at you, and plucks it up.
The buzzer sounds and the knockout’s friend has arrived, only it is three friends not one. So now you are dining in company with seven people, one of whom is a murderer, or actually two of whom are murderers, you find out after you’ve all begun tucking into Mr. Kindt’s heavy beef and carrot and shiitake stew.
I have just recently, says the second murderer, by way of introduction, become one.
Job, I say.
I go by Anthony, he says.
No one else makes any introductory statement.
Mr. Kindt, who has been seeing to something in the kitchen, comes and puts his hand on your shoulder and leans close and tells you that although it had never crossed his mind prior to your “kind intervention,” he has given some desultory thought to your offer to help him.
Yeah? you say.
Tonight, my boy, he says, there might be something you could do, or that you might wish to do, and that I would be happy for you to do, if you decide to.
His hand presses into your shoulder and you notice the first murderer looking and smiling at you and you notice Tulip looking at the first murderer and smiling at him.
Does it possibly have anything to do with me murdering anyone? you say.
Yes, Mr. Kindt says. I hope the prospect doesn’t bother you.
Not at all, you say, not sure how else to answer, given the hush you feel surrounding you.
That’s fine, Henry, Mr. Kindt says, and returns to his seat.
Not at all, you say again.
Then the first murderer begins talking about the close connection between the sugar industry and the art world in Europe, and Mr. Kindt is all ears.
The connection is very clear, says the murderer.
I’m sure it is, says Mr. Kindt.
The knockout is talking again too — she has started up a conversation with Tulip and the two other friends. The two friends watch her very closely, their heads making small, quick gestures, and Tulip pours and sips brandy and you, although you are just slightly discomfited by the outcome of your offer to reciprocate Mr. Kindt’s kindness, eat your stew.
It is as if, the murderer says, all the great works were dipped in and coated with sugar …
And the knockout says, and that is how, after the second incident, I repaired my arm …
I have been tempted, at the Munch Museum for instance, though I did not in fact do it, to slip forward, tongue-first, and test the veracity of this proposition …
You can see, if you look closely, that it really was very badly damaged, and that my method was quite effective …
Of course I know I would be disappointed …
In the final analysis, there was no lasting harm …
I find Munch most fascinating, but not for The Scream. I admire The Scream, in fact once I owned a good print, but I have never found it fascinating …
Look, you can still see it …
Etc.
Later, after dinner, you have a chance to speak privately with the knockout.