“My eyes don’t work. Someone got me a magnifier with a light on it. Makes no difference. I can’t hold things. Something wrong with my hands.”
“You don’t read at all?”
He frowned in disgrace.
“But, Humphrey,” she asked urgently, “can you talk to me honestly?”
“How do you mean?”
“First, where’s Venn? Do you know?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I haven’t heard from him in eleven years now. It makes no sense,” she said. “I’d assume he didn’t want anything to do with me. But even after everything fell apart in New York he kept helping me. Remember the bank card?”
After parting from Venn, she had used that “magic bank card” only in emergencies, considering it his money. Each time she spent from that account, the balance jumped back up. When the card expired after five years, a replacement arrived at her then-address, an apartment in Caracas — even from afar, Venn was looking out for her. Thereafter, she spent token amounts in every city she visited, so he’d always know her location. Eventually, the balance stopped bouncing back. And when that second card was to expire no replacement came. To safeguard his money, she used the balance to buy an asset: her business. When he returned, she’d sell it and repay his loan. Except that the value of World’s End had only diminished these past two years.
In any case, Venn never appeared. Had something befallen him? Was he in trouble somewhere and needed her? “Seriously,” she said. “You have to explain. Starting from Bangkok. I was too young to understand it then. And I never wanted to discuss what happened with Paul. But I think about all of that now. A lot.” She looked at him. “Humphrey?”
He shifted in his armchair, flustered. He ought to understand what she wanted — he recognized that much.
“Are you and Venn in contact still?” she asked.
He had no answers. She kept asking but he kept failing, growing increasingly distressed.
They sat in silence for a minute. No point humiliating him.
“I own a bookshop now,” she said.
“Did I make you coffee yet?”
She prepared it this time, taking their mugs to the stinking communal kitchen, where she scrubbed an aluminum pot left by another resident and boiled water. When she delivered his steaming mug, he perked up, took it from her, splashing coffee on his hands, though not seeming to register pain. “Sometimes I get sugar from the kitchen,” he said. With difficulty — how unsteady he’d become — Humphrey led her back, directing her to a box of sugar with a spoon sticking out. The sugar was crawling, ants marching up and down.
“That’s infested, Humph.”
“It’s not mine,” he replied, serving into his coffee a heaping spoonful of wriggling black-and-white sugar.
“Humph! Don’t!”
He gulped a fast sip, beaming, by far the jolliest she’d seen him, and went for another scoop.
“Wait.” Gritting herself, she flicked off ants, adding a clear spoonful to his coffee, stirring.
He sipped, compressed his rubbery lips, exhaled—“Marvelous! Absolutely delicious and delightful!”—then gulped the rest in two swallows. He plunked his mug on the kitchen counter, eagerly accepting her offer of another, which he drained while the coffee still scalded, his words emerging in steam: “Oh, I like you.”
“You approve of my coffee-making?”
“I like you as a person, as a human being. I quite love and adore you.”
“Don’t say that.”
“I’ve known you a long time.”
“A long time ago,” she corrected him.
“Was it?”
“Remember all the crazy stuff you taught me when I was small? Saying there was that explorer who got kidnapped in the jungle and the natives put ice cream on the soles of his feet, then brought in a goat to lick it off — the worst torture ever invented. I used to lie in my tent thinking of goats.”
“No, no,” he scoffed, though he appeared pleased to have concocted such bunkum. “If you like, you can tell me things I did. There are parts I don’t recall. You can tell me what happened.”
“What happened when?”
“What I did.”
“In your life? Humphrey, I have almost no idea.”
“But I thought we knew each other.”
“I came here so you could tell me things. Not the other way around. And I’m not your daughter, and you know that, so stop telling Duncan that.”
He bowed his head.
“Is this just a game, Humph? I can’t tell if this is real now.”
“Nothing, not even dictionaries, can tell you what anything means,” he said. “The reality of things is just sad, for the most part.”
“What do you mean?”
On he went, speaking as the snow-blind stumble downhill. She struggled to follow his course, her eyes tightening till she gave in, led him back to his room, her arm tensed behind him in case he stumbled.
“I’ll fetch you dinner, get it ready, then take off. Okay?”
But he wanted no food, nor help getting into bed.
“Anything I have to do before leaving?”
Humphrey sat in his chair, staring at the dark window, as if he’d flipped the CLOSED sign over himself and there was no further business that day. She made her way around him, and glanced back. This was to be her last sight of this old friend: a tuft of cotton-wool hair above the back of the armchair. She closed the door, stood in the hallway, hand on the knob.
Tooly hastened down Voorhies Avenue, heading not for the subway but south toward the water. She yearned for one of her exhausting hill walks, without intersections or pedestrians. The best she could do was the Brighton Beach boardwalk.
It was dark at this hour, perhaps dangerous. Someone could rob or assault her. Neither scared her right then; neither seemed possible, distracted as she was. Anyway, she had nothing for anyone to take. Except, she recalled, Duncan’s spare mobile phone. She held it by her side, ready to fling it into the sand if anyone menacing approached.
Tooly made it safely to the Coney Island end and back, striding fast to the edge of Manhattan Beach, where she stopped, listening to the lapping ocean in the dark. Had someone asked where on the planet she was, she’d have required a moment to respond. Wind flicked her hair. The tide pushed a lip of foam up the beach.
Her hand lit up and a voice came from it. She raised the phone to her ear.
“What’s the whooshing?”
“Why are you on my cell?” she responded.
“You just called me,” Fogg said.
“Did not.”
“I promise you.”
“Must’ve hit speed dial by mistake. Sorry.”
“What’s that whooshing?” he repeated.
“I’m at the beach.”
“Living the high life,” he said enviously. “On the beach, drinking margaritas.”
“What time is it there, Fogg?”
“Where? Here?”
“Yes, there. I know what time it is where I am.”
“To be brutally honest, Tooly, I don’t even know.”
“Thank you for being brutally honest about that.”
“I’m a night owl,” he informed her. “Still, can’t say I’m accustomed to many calls at this hour. Makes me feel right important.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“Now,” he said, “what can I do for you?”
“Nothing — this is a mistake call.”
“Shall we end it, then?”
She said nothing for an instant. “I need to fly back.”
“You only just got there.”
“I know, but …” To explain required telling him more. She offered an abridged version of the truth. That the old man here was not her father. That, as a girl, she’d been taken from home. That she wasn’t sure why. She cringed to say this — her past cohered so poorly. All she heard was inconsistencies, blank patches, and the questions surely occurring to Fogg now: What had become of her parents? And these people who’d brought her up — who were they?