GLASS SOUP Page 12

  “You can’t wait; you have to go there now.”

  Before he had a chance to say no again (and again and again), Haden began to rise off the ground like a slowly filling hot air balloon. Instantly he knew what was happening. “No! You can’t do this!”

  “I’m sorry, but you have to go. You’ve got to try and save Isabelle.”

  Haden rose higher. He flailed his arms as if somehow that could stop or control what was happening to him. But it couldn’t.

  “This isn’t fair. It’s wrong.”

  “I know Simon, but it’s necessary.”

  Haden wanted to answer but fury silenced him. When he’d risen about five feet above the ground, his body stopped and then began moving forward in one direction. He was being steered. The office window was wide open and he sailed through. It would have been a delightful sensation if he hadn’t known where he was going—toward all those shitty, shitty things: the monsters seen through the 3-D eyes and imagination of a scared child. The terrors, the relentless moments of failure, humiliation, confusion, and worse that he had experienced in his many nightmares over the years. Haden was going toward all of them, toward Ropenfeld. There was nothing he could do to stop it. And for what, to save Isabelle Neukor? Save her from what? Yes, he knew the secret of the universe, but how did it apply here?

  Celadon

  John Flannery was late for his meeting with Leni because he was hit by a car. A brand-new Porsche Cayenne, no less. One of those four-wheel-drive, eighty-thousand-dollar Jeep-y testosterone-turbos that rich men drive to show the world they’re larky, adventurous, but don’t forget I’m rich too. A “Weekend Rambo” vehicle. This one was so clean and new that it had only two hundred and thirty-nine kilometers on the odometer when it blew through a red traffic light at Schwedenplatz and hit Flannery square on while he was in the middle of a pedestrian crossing. The car knocked him back onto the sidewalk into a huddle of shrubs.

  A lot of people saw it happen. Some of them screamed. Others gaped, fascinated by this unexpected turn of events as they were walking across their day. A mother with two children turned around and ran in the other direction with them. The kids kept trying to look back over their shoulders to see if the guy was dead.

  He certainly looked dead. Flannery lay unmoving, sprawled over the bush like some kind of lumpy tarpaulin. The driver of the Porsche panicked. For a split second he thought Floor the accelerator and get the hell out of here. Fortunately his good sense prevailed. After taking a few deep breaths, he slowly and carefully got out of his sleek new car that had just become a deadly weapon. Terrified, he walked toward the body. He felt as if his insides had turned liquid and he was going to shit them out any moment.

  Until then his life had been golden. He had a successful business. His wife was beautiful and nice. He always drove through yellow lights turning to red. And why not? He was who he was. Life had always stepped back and let him go first.

  To his horror and incredulous relief, the body on the bush moved. Someone choked out, “He’s alive!” A woman gasped and blurted so quickly that her three words became one “ohmyGod!” Then the body moved again—an arm raised, lowered, and rose again.

  Seeing this slow-motion horror that he had caused, the driver once again had the wildly strong urge to run away. Leave his life, his wife, the car, leave everything and flee as fast as he could to anywhere. He forgot that a wallet containing all of his identification papers lay on the passenger’s seat alongside his cell phone which contained an address book fifty-four numbers long in its memory. He forgot that there were license plates on the car that could trace him on a computer in two seconds. He forgot everything that minutes ago had comprised his life. All that filled his frightened head now was Run—save yourself.

  Because even if the injured man survived, what followed would go on for years and ruin everything: the hospital, the recovery, the huge insurance claims, the lawsuits, the bad publicity, and yes, the money. Inside the now-screaming world of his dread he couldn’t help thinking about the money too.

  That’s what went through his mind while standing there watching this body move so slowly, like a lobster or a crab that’s been out of water too long. It was all his fault, everything. Good God, he’d be sued for millions. He had millions but would lose them now because—

  The body slowly turned. It turned over completely so he could now see the victim’s face for the first time. Someone said again, “He’s alive!” as if what they were seeing needed spoken verification again. But would the victim remain alive? How bad were his injuries?

  The driver had to find out. He could not stand not knowing anymore. With his last drop of courage, he walked over to the man lying on his back now, staring up at the sky. Remarkably, there was no blood. How could that be? How could a person be hit square on by a very large car and knocked that far back without bleeding somewhere?

  The victim slowly rolled his eyes away from the sky, over to the driver, and said, “I want your car.”

  The driver jerked back in surprise. John Flannery had not only spoken clearly and directly to him, but in Flemish. How could he know that the driver was Belgian and Flemish was his mother tongue?

  None of the other onlookers spoke that gluey, arcane language. They naturally thought the wounded man was out of his head with pain and speaking gibberish.

  “Listen to me because I will only say this once. In a minute I’m going to speak German so everyone here will understand. I’m going to ask you to put me in your car and take me to the hospital. This has to be done fast because the police will be here soon and then everything gets official. If they come that’s the worst thing that could happen to you.”

  The driver couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He couldn’t believe any of this was happening to him. But it was and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

  “All right. Will you do it.” Flannery said these things as statements, not the questions that they were. The driver mumbled yes.

  When Flannery spoke again it was much louder and in perfect German. “I hurt. I hurt. I want to go to the hospital now. Right now. Right now.”

  He kept saying that over and over like a keening lament. The bystanders told him to wait—surely an ambulance would come soon. Flannery’s only mistake was standing up a little too quickly for someone who was supposed to be so badly injured. But he knew that the police were only eight minutes away. This had to be done right now. Staggering over to the Porsche, he opened the door and shouted, “Take me now. Take me to the hospital! I can’t wait. I hurt! I hurt!”

  The driver watched this happen along with the others. He was a bystander too until someone said to him, “Go, go ahead. We’ll tell the police when they come. You go ahead. Take him to the hospital. We’ll tell the police.”

  Bewildered and unsure, the driver got back into his car and put it in gear. Flannery was slumped against the passenger door looking waxy, in pain and very ill. When they had pulled away from the crowd, he spoke again in Flemish.

  “I’ll tell you where to go. When we get there give me all of the papers you have on the car, and then leave. Never report that it was stolen. Never make an insurance claim, and continue to pay the insurance on it for the next two years. After that you can stop. Do you understand? This is your lucky day if you’re smart about it and do exactly what I told you.”

  “But how—”

  “Shut up. Don’t ask questions. If I want the ownership papers later, I’ll contact you. But I probably won’t need them. The car will never be used for anything bad so you don’t have to worry about that. Give me the keys and the papers, get out when I tell you to, and disappear.

  “Or you can take me to the hospital now. Then the police and everyone else will get involved and you’ll lose everything. That’s a guarantee. But if you give me the car and walk away clean, nothing else happens to you—all of it ends this minute. It’s your choice. Can you trust me to keep my word? Yes.”

  The driver was trying to think fast, come up with
all of the possible angles here, thinking what to do, what to do. But what could he do? All of it was his fault. That stupid red traffic light; this stupid new car. It made him feel bulletproof. Had made him feel bulletproof until now. And there had been so many witnesses. Some of them would surely come forward to testify against him. Everything was against him here. He was fucked any way he looked at it.

  Out of the corner of his eye, John Flannery watched this moron melt down. The sight was beautiful. Flannery always loved these moments. He could easily have stolen a car off the street and saved himself the trouble and acting involved in the funny little ruse. But doing that was nowhere near as delightful as watching firsthand as Chaos devoured a person’s life in a couple of bites. Especially because he knew a secret that the driver didn’t, having done this sort of thing before, and that made it all the more delicious.

  The secret was this was just the beginning. Flannery could have given this man a two-page printout of what was going to happen to him and when, give or take a few months. For example, today the driver would walk away from his brand-new car scared, unsure, ashamed of his behavior, and fundamentally overwhelmed. Even when he tried hard he wouldn’t be able to think straight about any of it, and he wouldn’t for a long time. Only his survival instinct would keep him going and moving away as far as he could get from the scene of his crime.

  Eventually he would travel through resentment and worry, anger, helplessness, and even gratitude that he had been spared, like they were small-town railroad stations his express train passed by on its way to the capital city, Paranoia.

  The driver was paranoid anyway—most successful people are. But after what had happened today, that paranoia would grow tenfold in his mind and heart, which was exactly what Flannery wanted. From now on, many times a day the driver would wonder Whatever happened to my car? Whatever happened to the man who took it? Should I be worried? Ashamed? What if the police knock on the door one day and say Come with us. There’s a problem.

  What if? What if? What if? For years the most innocent things, events and objects—a ringing telephone, a knock on the door, a strangely colored, formal-looking envelope in the mailbox, would all become dangerous, threats, things to worry about, enemies. New things that went bump in the night—and day. The man’s life wouldn’t be ruined by this event but it would be badly wounded and for years it would walk with a limp.

  Flannery loved it. Four blocks from his apartment he told the driver to pull over and stop. They were on the Obere Donaustrasse, next to the Danube Canal. From where they were parked they could see the rushing water.

  Flannery pointed. “Walk across that bridge. There’s a taxi stand on the other side. Or you can take the subway home. Give me the keys and the papers now.”

  The driver reached to turn off the ignition but stopped. “How do I know—”

  Flannery shook his head. “You don’t know. You have to take my word that it ends right here. As soon as you get out of the car this whole thing is finished. Lucky you.”

  “But I don’t know who you are. I don’t even know your name.” The man’s voice sounded mournful, a sad soul asking for reassurance.

  Flannery raised his head and spent time looking at the ceiling of the car. He considered admitting who he really was and then proving it to this fool. That would be exciting! But it wouldn’t accomplish much. Or rather it wouldn’t accomplish the kind of effect Flannery preferred: long slow never-ending woe.

  “Do you like proverbs?” He continued looking at the ceiling. But out of the corner of his eye he saw the driver staring suspiciously at him, as if waiting for a nasty punch line.

  “Proverbs? I don’t know. What does that have to do with this?” His voice was the giveaway; its petulant, impatient tone told Flannery exactly what the guy was like. He had the voice of a spoiled brat, a bully whenever possible; a self-absorbed lightweight who’d had a lot of luck which he mistook for talent and canny insight. At all times he believed his priorities took precedence over anyone else’s. The only things of substance in his entire being at the moment were the coins he had in his pants pocket.

  “Listen to this one—it’s very appropriate: ‘Whenever you take a mouthful of too-hot soup, the next thing you do will be wrong.’ Isn’t that brilliant?” Flannery’s face lit up like a child’s when its favorite television show came on.

  The driver said nothing. His eyes said nothing.

  It didn’t matter. Flannery had an appointment to keep with Leni; enough of this. Reaching under his ass on the seat, he pulled out the driver’s wallet and cell phone. The other man reached out to take them.

  “No. Not yet.” Flannery brought the phone close to his face and began to tap in numbers on it.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Calling the police. Do you know how much fun they’re going to have with this? You ran a red light, hit a pedestrian in a crosswalk, then left the scene of the crime—your crime—with the victim. I’m going to tell them where we are and have them come get us. I HURT! I HAVE TO GO TO THE HOSPITAL! I HURT!”

  There was a shocked silence when Flannery finished yelling. The telephone was close enough for the driver to hear someone on the other end of the line answer “Polizei.”

  Snatching the phone out of Flannery’s hand and fumbling with the buttons, he managed to disconnect the call. “Give me my wallet.” Taking it, he slid a transparent envelope out of an inner pocket. It contained the necessary papers to the Porsche. He wanted to ask more questions. He wanted reassurance again that this horror would go no further than today, right now. He wanted so many things but knew there was no way he could have them because… driving through that red light he had taken a mouthful of too-hot soup. He had caused this accident. What options did he have? Now he understood why the big man had recited that proverb—because it was totally appropriate.

  He handed over his car papers and keys. Without looking, Flannery took them.

  “And now I should just go?”

  “Open the door and go. C’est tout.”

  The driver clicked the handle and his door opened a crack. This car had cost almost one hundred thousand euros. He had had it six days. Street noise swept in. He looked through the window. It was sunny and clear out there. A delicious wisp of cool breeze blew in through the crack and across his face. He could almost taste its freshness. The green-brown water in the Danube canal over there moved by so easily and freely. More than anything else he wanted to be out there, away from this car, away from everything that had happened in the last half hour. He imagined walking over the bridge back into the center of town. He would do errands. That was good, a good diversion. He would do his errands and walk and walk. Eventually he would call his wife. No, not that. What could he say to her? He would have to create a perfect story about the car, a great alibi. One she would believe and accept without hesitation.

  When his telephone rang these thoughts dissolved. He looked at the screen to see if he recognized the caller but it said only, “Number withheld.”

  “Hello?”

  “This is the police. You called before but then hung up.”

  When he responded his voice was cool and professional. He knew how to do this. He was in his element. “I’m sorry, but the call was a mistake. We thought we’d been robbed but then my wife discovered she’d simply misplaced her things. Sorry for the inconvenience.”

  The policeman on the other end asked a few more halfhearted questions and then rang off.

  “That was impressive. You’re very good at bullshitting. You won’t have any trouble explaining what happened to your car.”

  The driver stared at Flannery who did look bad. “Are you really hurt? Or is all this just…”

  Instead of answering the question, Flannery slowly slid his left trouser leg up. The leg was clearly broken in two places, one of them a savage compound fracture. “Wanna see more?”

  One look at that hideous leg was enough for the driver. Recoiling, he stumbled getting out of the car and almost fell
down.

  “Hey,” Flannery called out just as the guy was about to shut the door.

  The driver looked at him in alarm. God almighty, what next? “Yes?”

  “ ‘Beware of the silent dog.’”

  Not sure he had heard right, the man leaned forward. “What did you say?”

  “ ‘Beware of the silent dog.’”

  “What? What do you mean?” All of these proverbs; why didn’t the guy just say what he meant?

  Flannery let go of his pant leg. The material slid back down halfway, covering only part of the wound. He licked his lips and smiled. “Woof.”

  The driver nodded his head fast too many times—yes, now he understood exactly what he was being told. Flannery watched him cross the street and walk double-time toward the bridge.

  The interior of the car was black and silver, beautiful in its detail. “Beautifully appointed,” Flannery said like a radio announcer, as if he were trying to sell the car to himself. He touched the steering wheel, the gearshift lever. Then he inhaled that indescribable sweet/sour smell of new car and new leather. Very nice. All of it was very nice. He had chosen well.

  But what color was the car exactly? He had forgotten to ask. It was a kind of grayish yellow-green. No, it was more than that. He closed his eyes a moment and searching, found the word—celadon. He had never heard of the word before but that’s what color this car was—a celadon Porsche.

  “Okey dokey.” He slid both hands slowly down either side of his broken left leg, as if the whole thing were wet and he was squeezing water out of it. On reaching the ankle, he pulled up the pants to look. His leg was whole again—unbroken and unmarked.

  He had a date in a few minutes. He needed to look presentable for it and not like a man who had just been struck by a car. Running his hands over his whole body, the torn and dirty clothes he wore disappeared and transformed into what he had been wearing an hour before—a new white T-shirt and beige shorts. He moved his hands up over his neck and face. All of the smudges and scratches from the accident disappeared as soon as they were touched. Now his beard was carefully trimmed and the smell of Gray Flannel cologne filled the car. He reached over and turned the rearview mirror toward him. Looking at his reflection, what he saw there was okay. Time for Leni.