The Soul Thief_ A Novel - Charles Baxter [63]
“Who’s yours? You seem to know about mine,” I said.
“What does it matter? Are you trying to take a moral inventory? It wouldn’t be anyone you know. Love is generic. Besides, that’s not what you’re really interested in.”
“What am I really interested in? Since you seem to be the expert.”
“Well, okay, to start with, here’s a subject of interest: What am I doing with your notebook from years ago? Why was it reposing on the floor of my car? Which you surely took note of, that notebook, when I was in the supermarket buying garlic and arrowroot?”
“I did.”
“Isn’t it interesting?” he asked. “So far, we haven’t talked about those days. You never asked me back then, or ever, why I had your clothes stolen or why I was wearing them. You went around with that expression on your face as if you understood each and every one of my actions, as if you understood everything and accepted all of it. No one will ever tell you this except me, so I’ll say it: that expression appeared to comprehend everything that anybody could present to it. Your tolerance was positively grotesque in its limitlessness. What didn’t you accept? It was your greatest weapon. No: your second-greatest weapon.”
“What was the first?”
“Want another bottle of wine?”
“I’ve had enough.”
“So what? Who cares? You’re not driving anywhere.” He made a gesture at the waiter, and instead of wine ordered brandy. Then he began teasing his lower lip with his index finger. “Why do you care about that sculptor so much, that Jamie person? Why did you care?”
I reached for my wineglass. “Because I loved her. Because I never got over her.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Yes. About that I am very sure.” My syntax had acquired the stately formality of the truly inebriated. I was still wondering what he thought my greatest weapon was. “And by the way, who are you to be interrogating me about any of this?”
He smiled an impish smile. “The host of American Evenings, that’s who. And look. That’s exactly what we’ve been presented with.” He pointed in the general direction of the Pacific Ocean. “A pleasantly wonderful American evening for the consumers of twilight and our national metaphysical ruin, as played out here, in the best of all possible worlds, in SoCal.”
I wasn’t sure that I had heard him correctly. “‘SoCal’?” Had he really employed that usage? “So this is another one of your American Evenings? You don’t have your tape recorder on, do you?”
“Oh, no, Nathaniel, that would be illegal, immoral, and, what’s worse, impractical. You can’t pick up an adequate—”
“What did you do to her?” I interrupted him.
“To whom?”
“To Jamie.”
“To Jamie? I didn’t do anything to her.” He leaned back. “She was set upon. By dogs.”
“But you predicted it. You told me that day in the zoo. You said you were writing something called Shadow, whose story contained an Iago-like character named Trautwein, I remember that, who is tormenting another character, I think his name—and it was truly a ridiculous name, an affectedly literary name—was Ambrose, who loves this woman, an artist, and Ambrose…well, the person he loves is harmed, not directly, but by hired-out third parties. It’s not Othello, but it’s a third cousin once removed to that story. Trautwein sees to the harm.” I winced at my own alcoholic repetitions, but they were essential to the case I was making.
Somehow, coffee had appeared on the table. Coolberg picked up his cup. “It might have been a coincidence.”
“Okay,” I replied to him. “But what if it wasn’t? What if…let’s just say…hypothetically…what if you, or, um, someone like you, not you exactly, not you as you are now, what if this hypothetical past-tense person had hired…what if you had hired some young men, some thugs, for example, that you found hanging around the People’s Kitchen or some place like that, to beat her up, to do terrible