“He still had options. We always have options.”
“Options?” he scoffs. “By options, do you mean the pissing away of several million dollars in technology that would enable him to apologize to the dead? That's the real reason behind the A-R-E: He wanted to bring the Russian miners and prisoners to Brooklyn, to have a fucking party with these…these ghosts, as if it could somehow ameliorate the tragedy that was their life — a bandage in the form of bacchanalia.”
He takes a long drag from his cigarette. He seems so calm now that one could mistake his demeanor for smug. “Astrally-Resurrected Entities: The Russians who died in the Balaguez mines over one hundred years ago — the same people who had to die to grant his father the ability to circumvent the law, to allow his mother the ability to become the most feared person in Brooklyn real estate, to allow him his schooling at Columbia and Harvard, not to mention his years of aimless traveling and wanton reprobation. And what do you think came of his funding of Dr. Frankenstein's inventions?” I narrow my eyes. “Do you think that Keens discovered a means by which he could communicate with the dead? Or is it far more plausible that the obvious futility of these continued experiments was just further proof of his inability to cope with the history of his family and the crimes he inherited?” He grunts. “And now his grandson continues the pointless charade by inviting a gang of corybants to engage in the basest performances of hedonism and debauchery one can imagine. Is there anything redeeming in that?”
We gaze to one another in a détente that brings not only silence, but also resignation on my part. I am outmatched. I pull my eyes away from Sean, and begin to examine the rest of the garden: the emaciated cat that has appeared on the wall above, the couples gossiping about friends assumed to be mutual, the waitress — Zoe — forcing laughter and salads with goat cheese onto patrons, Sean staring to the ashtray without any ostensible emotion, the harem of shadows dancing enthusiastically in the breeze, the uneven portions of concrete being forced up by the roots of the oak. I have no reason to hold the beliefs that I am unwilling to abandon; I only have a vague sense of hope that seems sympathetic to the existence of a world beyond visible wavelengths and audible frequencies. How can one prove anything when the conclusion we wish to affirm carries the gravity it does precisely because it exists beyond the realm of measurement and empirical instrumentation? It is not faith, but, then again, what else goes by the epithet of unverifiable trust?
The heart of the matter seems to be that there is no barometer with which to gauge our ignorance, there can only be the recognition of areas where knowledge is absent. Successive to that revelation, there comes the discovery that these knowledge vacuums do not diminish with age or study; instead, they augment. Sean cannot admit that some of these holes will never, can never, be filled. As a result, he denies that many exist. Paradoxically, I am more conservative when measuring the dimensions of human ignorance. All that is left is recourse in the F word, the word that provides the only defense against both agnosticism and solipsism. Without it, it would seem that all is lost but the lucent sparks of the mind.
The waitress walks back towards the door and gives the tables a once over. The tabby, meanwhile, prowls the wall, a half-eaten brunch plate and starvation in its eyes. I believe I am the only one acknowledging the curious feline. We lock eyes for a moment, a mutual recognition of what is perhaps more imminent than necessary. I nod, almost as if giving my consent.
The cat finally descends upon the table next to ours, sending greens and fish and half-eaten pieces of bread into the air. Coffee cups and mimosa flutes plummet to the unforgiving concrete below. A clamor of indomitable laughter and bewildered cursing erupts from the surrounding tables.
Sean looks to me with a kind of vapid disdain; I, meanwhile, have stood to get a better look of the scene. The waitress cannot contain herself, which the unfortunate couple at the epicenter of the disturbance view as inconsiderate and horribly offensive. They stand to leave as the cat continues to eat the remnants of their meal. The waitress turns to the busboy — a suddenly cataleptic youth with confusion tattooed on his face — and demands he do something, though this order is neither importune nor entirely direct.
“Can you believe that fucking cat, man?” I chuckle as I sit back down.
“I think it sad,” he laments as he stubs out his cigarette. His words tumble out with an exhaust of derision and paraquat. He gnaws at a long nail, but doesn't bite. It's more of a cleaning exercise, I guess. “So what are you going to do? You have two weeks to track down Coprolalia, and you've accomplished nothing to speak of. You need to think of something; otherwise…well, there doesn't seem to be an ultimatum for you, now does there?”
“I was thinking about paying Willis Faxo a visit,” I respond. I pick up my coffee mug. The waitress, synthetic embarrassment and restrained laughter, looks to me for empathy or sympathy or really anything human. I smile. She smiles back.
When she comes to our table, I don't know if asking if we need anything else is a pretext or if it is sincere. Sean asks for the check. I ask if the drink special is still going on.
11.2
After leaving a message on Faxo's machine, I decide to call Daphne. She is also unavailable. I hang up after leaving a message, and feel that unique type of remorse one feels after leaving a message on the machine of a minor acquaintance.
I really have no idea where to go. Sean became eager to leave once I ordered a second bloody mary. “It's buy one, get one free. Where's the sense in getting only one?” This logic didn't exactly persuade him. He quickly left for reasons that were apparently unrelated.
It seems as though I've dug myself something of a hole. Just about all of the people with whom I have been associating are beyond reach. I don't even have Aberdeen's number. I'm guessing that Tomas is still sleeping off last night's conquest. Most of the acolytes are probably just getting to bed. Patrick and the rest of the citrus artillery are probably still going at it — unless they’re out of ammunition, of course. The old college crew is either still away or preparing for interviews in the morning. Jeff…well, the gun's not to my head quite yet. I wonder if Connie is in town, but figure that it's unlikely. She always did love the City on Sundays, especially during the autumn months, which are so conducive to those conversations that can be measured in miles even if they contain so little in substance. Sean probably won't return my calls in the future, and it's possible, if he's the spiteful type, that he will reject any interview I submit to the magazine as a pitiful fabrication.
All in all, it seems as though I have the choice of either a desultory ramble around the city or going home. The latter option seems more enticing. While I am well aware of my self-imposed duty to continue looking for new pieces done by Coprolalia, exploring neighborhoods at random hasn't been particularly constructive. I feel as though it's time to finally face the unfortunate fact that I have been avoiding for the past few days: I am not going to reach any type of epiphany, nor am I going to discover anyone with any worthwhile information concerning Coprolalia while downing cheap pints of beer in the soiled taverns adjacent to equally soiled tenement buildings and bodegas. And let's not forget the logistics of the whole endeavor. Coprolalia may have been in the Village last night. It is equally probable that he slept by Columbia after visiting College Point, City Island, Pelham Park, Bowling Green, and Breezy Point. There's no algorithm to calculate; there is no hunch that will provide anything more than disappointment or, at worst, another series of faulty assumptions.