[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
fellow with a furious moustache and sleek black hair, I did not hate him as much as I had presumed; I
saw him mainly as an impediment to my new goals.
He sat at the desk, switched on a lamp that cast a pool of light onto the writing surface, shuffled some
papers, then spotted the ten-piastre coin that I had left for him. He picked it up and held it to the light.
The coin was bent double, the image on its face erased by the pressure of my right thumb and forefinger.
It seemed an article of wonder to him, and I felt a little sad for what I must do. He was, after all, much
the same as I, a ruthless man with goals, except my ruthlessness was a matter of future record and my
goals the stuff of prophecy.
There was no point, I realized, in delaying things. I moved forward, and he peered into the darkness,
trying to make me out, his face beginning to register the first of his final misgivings. I felt ordered and
serene, not in the least anxious, and I understood that this must be the feeling one attains when one takes
a difficult step one has balked at for years and finds that it is not so difficult at all, but a sweet inevitability,
a confident emergence rather than an escalation of fear.
Hello, Rollo, I said. I just need a few seconds of your time.
-=*=-
HOW LONESOME HEARTBREAK CHANGED HIS LIFE
Previously unpublished.
Jesus and the moneylenders, the journalist said to Mizell. Know the story? Jesus tries that
clear-out-the-temple shit here in Vietnam, they ll co-opt his Christian ass. They ll sit him down and say,
Man, we don t care you preach, you prophesy, change puppy chow into peanut oil. If it feels good, do
it. But if you re gonna take ten percent from the flock, we gotta have twenty percent off the top. What
choice does he have? These bastards are relentless. They ll break down anyone s moral fiber. So he
agrees. Pretty soon they want a bigger percentage. Jesus has to increase the tithe to keep his operation
going. And the flock, they gotta start hustling so they can pony up their end. Fore you know it, the Man
From Galilee is running smack in from Laos and pimping Chinese girls just so he can get his message
across.
It s not that bad, Mizell said absently. He reminded himself to check on Anna -- she d been in the
ladies room a long time. Give her a couple more minutes.
You re used to it is all. The journalist shifted in his chair, studying Mizell with what seemed wry
conjecture. Me, I m still in a state of wonderment.
Mizell couldn t tell if he was being fucked with, whether the journalist was doing real attitude or simply
trying out new material. He had a dark, Mediterranean face that was difficult to read. Curly black hair
and a bushy, graying mustache and an old livid scar along the jawline under one ear. The face of
someone, Mizell imagined, who might in weak moments consider himself a romantic figure. He was
dressed for low-end travel -- jeans and an olive T-shirt -- and carried a leather shoulder bag.
There s this cop I ran into, okay, he said. I mean, this is the essence of the situation right here... this
cop. He stands out front the New World Hotel from dawn til, y know, nine, ten o clock at night. Every
day. His entire job is to hand out tickets to people who run red lights, and to extort extra money. One
day the power goes out, the traffic lights stop working. No red lights, no job. He doesn t give a thought
to unsnarling the traffic jams and shit, he just goes home. That s the end of his responsibility. It s the
Vietnamese way. You can t fucking escape it.
He asked if Mizell wanted another beer. Mizell said No, and tried once again to remember the
journalist s name. He d forgotten it the instant he heard it, because he hadn t expected they would be
spending much time together.
They had met an hour before outside Zee Bar in Saigon, a yuppie spawning ground where no one did
any serious drinking, and they had taken a table amid potted palms and aqua lighting and piped-in lounge
music in a dim corner of the place, which was almost deserted at that hour of the afternoon. When the
journalist learned they were driving to Vung Thao, he had begged a ride. Mizell did favors for a living; he
took the occupation seriously, carried cards with his fax and phone numbers, and cultivated a casual,
approachable look, kind of an aging surfer thing, so as to encourage business. The thought of doing a
favor for free -- even such a small one -- caused him to hesitate, but he decided that having the journalist
along would help pass time on the drive. It was for sure Anna wouldn t be up to conversation.
What are you looking for in Vung Thao? he asked, and the journalist said he wanted to find the
rave, someone had told him there was going to be a rave out that way.
I heard about this guy calls himself Lonesome Heartbreak, he said. Crazy fucker dresses up like
Roy Rogers and plays guitar.
Oh, yeah, said Mizell. He ll be around. The DJs usually give him a slot. Everybody loves a freak.
You know him?
I did business with him once. They screwed up his visa, and I helped him get an extension. He
seemed like an interesting guy. I was still curious about him, so I broke into his van and checked him
out.
The journalist had turned his attention to the bar, where a couple of thirtyish occidentals with gelled
hair were talking into cell phones; now he cut his eyes toward Mizell. Wow, he said mildly. You must
have been really curious.
Just keeping up to date. Mizell took a swig of beer. I heard he s not Japanese. That s what a
Japanese woman told me. Of course she s probably lying. Most of the Japanese seem to feel he s an
embarrassment.
So what was in the van?
The most illuminating items were relics of his dead wife. Photographs. A bronze urn full of ashes. A
clipping from the London Times. She was killed crossing a street in Highsmith. Hit by a car. The stuff s
all arranged on this sort of altar. I got the idea he s completing the around-the-world trip they were on.
Their honeymoon. Like it s this ceremonial deal or something.
The journalist mulled this over, then asked Mizell if he d ever been to Japan.
Yeah, I did a week or so in Tokyo. The consensus society... Mizell made a sour face. Not for
me.
A new song from the speakers. Green jungle noises, bird calls, vibraphone notes simulating rain, and a
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]