But in the meantime — it was still early — I went up into the old city to see if I could find any old women to talk to. I used the walk to think some more about my dream and about what the old men had said about it. The fact that they were all aware of my investigation, seemed somehow tied to my dream, as if the dream of an investigation had merged with the speculation surrounding the real one. I wasn’t entirely sure, having formulated this last, what I had meant by it, but was strangely pleased for a moment, as in some small way I’d made a breakthrough. As soon as I was over that feeling, I went back to the dream itself. Upon waking from it I’d been very interested by the notion that the whole thing had hinged on a hunch, largely unexplained, and I had lain in my bed thinking about how, in my real investigation, I could turn this to my advantage. As I lay there thinking about it, calling to mind bits and pieces of the dream, no doubt adding patches and embroidering connective elements onto it, I remembered or created the phrase, he’s been dead for weeks, and this too seemed to have some resonance. It also occurred to me to wonder whether my character, as it were, when supposedly acting on his hunch, had known all along how it would end. I don’t know, I thought. And still don’t. I can assure you, however, that at that point I didn’t know (or was unaware that I knew) how my investigation would end and, properly speaking, still don’t — I am waiting. I wait here. With all the fresh bulbs in the apartment burning. The tiny dagger on the table in front of me. Waiting for the man in the photograph to arrive.
And then I ran into the guy with the face and neck problem and the woman who had blindfolded me. They were standing or walking arm in arm beneath a trellis hung heavily with wisteria. I can’t remember if they were coming toward me, or I was coming toward them. It is a small point, perhaps, but over the course of the investigation, as pathetic as it was, I developed the habit of considering such details and attempting to make some sense of them. Likely, it seems to me, it was the former, as I often pause — and am often bumped into from behind because I do it pretty abruptly — and also because when I remember this part, I remember an absurd amount of motion in the area of his face and of her bosom. This perceived motion, however, may derive from faulty memory and my limp, not to mention my fairly poor night vision. At any rate, both of them stopped or started — I either stopped or stood still. Oh, it’s you, one of them said. You’re the woman who blindfolded me, I said. And you’re the one I caught with his hands in my underwear drawer, she said. Tut, tut, the man with the fucked-up face said. Then he asked me, presumably because she was holding up one of those masks that have a lot of feathers and a handle on them, how I had recognized her. The voice, professor, I said. Of course, he said, it’s just I hadn’t realized you were close enough to hear us. Well I was and, incidentally, who are you? I said. Me or her? Both, while we’re at it. If you can’t recognize me I’m not going to tell you, he said. If you let me put a blindfold on you I’ll tell you who I am, she said. Why, is there something wrong with your face too? Tut, tut, don’t be rude, said the guy. What’s this tut, tut crap? I said. I understand you’re under a strain so I’ll give you five seconds to apologize for your comportment. Likely there were large individuals in close proximity, and there was definitely his gun and maybe also hers, but mainly I was feeling a little fragile, so I said it — sorry. Good, he said. We all stood there a minute. There were night birds calling and the sound of motors and car horns and the air was full of the scent of wisteria. Look, do me a favor, I’m not getting anywhere, tell me something, anything, I said. You’ll learn more tomorrow, maybe even tonight. Just tell me something now, one thing. All right, there will be witnesses. Where? At the scene. Why? It’s a new procedure — straight from the records department. The records department? I said. Yes, he said. I don’t get it. Get what? What that means or why you told me that. He shrugged. So that’s it? That’s all you’ll tell me? Yes. Well, fuck you. They looked at me then at each other then started to walk off. Hey, hold on a second, I said. But they didn’t. And I couldn’t blame them. As a matter of fact when I bumped into her again a little later, alone this time, I apologized without being asked to. She lifted her mask high enough for me to see her mouth, smiled, said, follow me, then lowered it again.
When the three weeks were over, I went to the southwest gates of the public gardens and hid behind a bitter orange tree. It was a small tree with dark green foliage and large inedible oranges, meaning the top half of me would not be visible to anyone approaching or leaving, was my theory. The tree was off to one side of the gates near a pair of overfilled trash bins. As I stood there, someone came over and threw something into one of them. My irritation at this gesture (whatever it was had simply bounced off the top of one of the bins, dislodging, as it did so, several other items, all of which fell at my feet) was quickly replaced by a sense of anxiety (he had walked away) that this had been the individual I was waiting for. Or hiding from. Why was I hiding? Hiding was better. I had had some of my greater successes because of hiding, or related to hiding. But did that apply in this case? Surely, simply, it was better to play it safe. I had “waited” before and paid the consequences. Having thought that through, I decided it hadn’t been him, as the individual in the blurred photograph was clearly pretty large (I mean fat) and this individual hadn’t been. A moment later, when I took into consideration the possibility that this individual, like myself, might recently have lost weight, possibly during the process of a disaffirmation, one that had later been overturned, this decision was in doubt again. I momentarily stepped out from behind the tree to see if I could spot him, but couldn’t. For about five seconds I was at a loss, then it occurred to me (and I have no idea why this seemed plausible) that he might return, at which point I could, calling out from behind the tree, tactfully ask him if he had recently lost a great amount of weight, or, depending on my mood, and if no one else more likely had come along, leave the tree and follow him.
The life of the investigator involves a lot of waiting, as does that of the small-time gangster. One waits (or hides) and one thinks and usually this thinking is not much. As I stood there in the semidark behind the orange tree I thought, more or less, nice oranges, nice thick foliage, nice dark leaves. I thought, fucker for knocking the trash onto the ground and for possibly being my killer and, I thought, I was happier when I was fat. Fat and younger so I could handle said fat. Images of myself — fat and younger; wearing a cakeseller’s apron; wearing sunglasses; standing on stage singing opera; looking fat in shorts. Now I am old and where there was once honest fat there are dubious folds. This has nothing to do with my being old. This doesn’t matter. Someone approached. I stopped thinking. It was a woman. My heart went whomp! then I started thinking again. About the woman I had loved and lost and maybe, for a short while, found again. Then the oranges. Then my life as an organic asset, certain aspects to do with pay. Also with screwing up. Then I thought about hiding. About wearing infrared goggles and standing in the dark. Then about moving through the dark. Once I hid in someone’s closet, someone known to carry two guns. She fell asleep, then I came out carrying a hammer. I was convinced I was dead for a time, early in my career. There was even some evidence, not to mention one or two minor out-of-body experiences, and it was during this period that I first got it in mind that I would like to carry out an investigation and even went so far as to set myself up with an office, a friend who was willing to work as my secretary, and one or two clients. For health reasons, however, I was soon obliged to return to work for the firm with which I had been previously engaged. To say anything is to complicate it. Like darkness. To remember anything. My boss in the early days liked trains. I had several friends. One in particular. We drank a lot. Clearly, here, I was remembering. Or for-getting — I am always confused which. My dream came up. I considered rearranging it to make it absolutely clear at the next telling that at the beginning my character had had no idea of the outcome. So that in a sense he, I, knew without knowing it. Which seemed a great luxury. And also utterly outside the realm of possibility. I said this out loud. I smelled something. It didn’t smell good. It was me. Then birds began making noise and I realized that a considerable interval of time had passed. I came out from behind the tree and sat on a bench. I sat there for another interval. I stood. I walked in through the garden gates. I met the woman with the mask only now she wasn’t wearing one.