‘But if we don’t need others, then why is loneliness so intolerable?’
‘What do you think?’
‘Biology. If we all thought it was fine to be alone, we wouldn’t want to reproduce ourselves.’
Lunde raised a finger to point to a glass case full of butterflies hanging on the wall behind him. ‘Some species meet up for the purpose of reproduction only.’
‘Economics, then. Cooperating with others gives everyone a better chance of survival.’
‘You and your economics. Economics doesn’t drive people insane. But loneliness does. Am I right?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Loneliness is a fairly novel experience for you, Bob, isn’t it?’
Bob didn’t reply. Again Mike Lunde smiled that smile that Bob seemed to recognise from somewhere, some faint childhood memory he couldn’t quite pull to the surface. The store bell jangled.
A man walked in. He was wearing a suit that looked straight out of one of the Downtown West skyscrapers. Bob waited as the customer explained that he wanted a hunting trophy stuffed — a black rhinoceros. He’d heard that Lunde was the best in the business. Lunde declined politely, explaining that he didn’t do rhinoceros. When the man insisted, and demanded an explanation, Mike Lunde said that he just didn’t work with threatened species. The customer got a little heated. He pointed out that he’d had permission from the Namibian authorities, it was one of the five animals a year they allowed. He added that he had an import licence for the animal. Lunde offered his congratulations, and it wasn’t easy for Bob to know if he was being ironic. He said the black rhinoceros was on the taxidermists’ blacklist, no pun intended. The man protested that it wasn’t illegal, he’d spent a quarter of a million dollars for the hunting rights at an auction in Dallas, that the money went toward the preservation of the black rhinoceros, and that he was prepared to pay well for a good taxidermist to do the job.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Lunde, gently but firmly. ‘But by all means, bring in another animal.’
The bell jingled angrily as the man left.
Mike Lunde sighed.
‘Couldn’t you have taken that job?’ asked Bob.
‘Maybe,’ said Lunde. ‘Ethical dilemmas always give me a headache. While I’ve got you here, would you mind helping me with the mother lynx?’
Together they manoeuvred down a lynx mounted on a branch that was attached to the wall. Lunde sprayed the lynx’s coat with something from a bottle. Bob went over to the glass case with the butterflies.
‘How old are these?’
‘My father’s butterflies? Forty, forty-five.’
‘It’s wonderful, the way the colour is preserved.’
‘My grandfather said that butterfly wings don’t fade like other dead bodies, that they’re like mementos of the dead. With each passing year the colour gets stronger.’
Bob nodded. Continued to study the butterflies while Lunde dried off the lynx with a tissue. Hesitated a moment. Then asked: ‘What makes you think I’m lonely?’
Lunde carried on drying for a few moments before replying. ‘It’s in the eyes. Always the eyes. I saw it the moment you entered the store. Your eyes expressed the same thing as Tomás. Loss. Anger. Desperation. Loneliness.’
‘Did you tell him that too? That you knew he was lonely?’
‘Tomás? He said so himself.’
‘What did he say about being lonely?’
‘Lots. That it was slowly driving him mad.’
‘And is he mad, do you think?’
Lunde shrugged. ‘It looks that way, don’t you think? Normal people don’t kill other people. Although, the same could be said of those that killed his family. I don’t think your guy is any better or any worse than anyone else, he’s just been unlucky. His world was shattered. He said that what tormented him most was that those idiots hadn’t killed him, the only one who could pose any threat to them.’
‘Yes,’ said Bob. ‘I know what he means.’
‘Give me a hand again here?’
After returning the lynx to its place they went back into the workshop and Lunde continued working. Bob fell asleep with his head against the wall. He dreamed. It was the same dream. He was holding a pistol and firing at a tiny head with a candyfloss halo of fair hair. And was woken by the sound of Lunde talking on his cell phone:
‘Yes, I’m just leaving now.’ Bob heard the twittering of a female voice at the other end and saw the broad smile on Mike Lunde’s face. ‘Meatballs? Mm, that sounds good.’
He hung up.
‘Sorry,’ said Bob as he sat up in the chair and wiped the dribble from the corner of his mouth. ‘I had a bad night.’
‘You were sound asleep. That’s good.’
‘I heard meatballs. With brown sauce, potatoes and mushy peas?’
Lunde smiled. ‘Yes, as it happens. How about you?’
‘Guess.’
Lunde leaned his head to one side and looked at Bob. ‘I’m guessing you’re going to eat alone, and you don’t care a damn where or what.’
‘Bullseye.’
Bob then noticed Lunde’s hesitancy. It was as though he was wondering whether to invite Bob home with him. Then perhaps he saw the warning signs in Bob’s eyes and let it drop.
‘One more thing,’ said Bob. ‘You said you didn’t know if Gomez has a phone, but he has your cell number, it’s printed on your business card. Given that he knows we’re looking for him, it could be he won’t take the chance of turning up here in person but he’ll ring you instead.’
Lunde nodded. ‘You could be right there.’
‘Can I borrow your phone for a few seconds?’
Lunde tapped in a code that opened it and handed it to Bob. Bob went online and downloaded an app.
‘Using this app, with just one tap on the keyboard you can record conversations on your phone without the other person knowing about it. It’s unbelievable what sound technicians are able to get out of the voice and the background sounds on such a recording.’
‘You don’t say?’ said Lunde. He looked down sceptically at his phone.
‘Anyway, the option is there, if you want it,’ said Bob. ‘And thanks, thanks for letting me hang out here.’
It had stopped raining by the time Lunde locked the store door behind him, but heavy clouds the colour of exhaust fumes still coated the sky. The sidewalks were beginning to dry. Bob breathed in the air. Remembered childhood, and how sharp every sensory impression was, how even the most insignificant of them could seem almost overwhelming, like the special smell, the humid taste of rain-wet asphalt. Now it smelled and tasted of nothing. He thought about eyes. How it’s the eyes that are the problem.
21
Southdale Mall, September 2022
We’re waiting for a red light in Edina, which is technically speaking another town. The cab driver, whose name I have discovered is Gabriel, tells me that he thinks the mayor of Edina is of Norwegian descent. I’m more preoccupied by the fact that I don’t recognise my surroundings. What’s happened to my Southdale Mall? Gabriel explains that my shopping mall is hidden from view now behind all the new buildings, that it is actually still there, just behind them. He looks at me in the mirror.