Part 32 (1/2)
They sat in silence.
”When I get to that stage,” he continued, ”I'll jump out a window. But I'm not at that stage. So you can d.a.m.n well shut up about it.”
She didn't recall his ever having spoken to her so aggressively. Such words were not shocking in themselves, but from his mouth they wounded her. ”Sorry,” she said.
He s.h.i.+fted in his armchair, pressing the TV remote, unable to produce any effect.
”Can I help you, Humph?”
”No, you cannot. Television's broken.”
The push of a single b.u.t.ton would have lit it up as he wanted. Yet she couldn't think of a tactful way to take it from him. He closed his eyes, clearly not sleeping, hands twitching with rage.
Since her arrival in New York, his condition had only worsened. It was as if he'd been clinging on, and her presence had allowed him to release.
”It's okay, Humph. I'm making sure everything's all right.”
He spoke again of his exhaustion with being alive, of his desire to be gone already. She struggled for a response-she might have felt the same in his position, into the ninth decade of life, blind and deaf and trapped in this miserable room. ”Dear Humph, I know it's rotten, this situation you're in. It is. But you'll be free from it soon.”
”I'm impatient,” he said. ”I want to be done.”
She took his hand, but it remained limp in hers.
”You're here now,” he said, ”and I'm afraid of you going away, me being alone again.”
”There are other people. There's Yelena.”
”But you are Tooly Zylberberg.”
”I am,” she said, smiling sadly.
”The favorite person of my life.”
Her eyes welled up. ”I'm not going away,” she promised, fighting to maintain a steady voice. ”I'll stay as long as you need me.”
”When my father died,” he said, ”his breathing went very slow.”
”Do you remember that, Humph? Where was it?”
He recalled looking out a window at a big tree. And imagining himself seen from s.p.a.ce, a miniature dot of a human being, there at the southern tip of the African continent.
”This was in South Africa, was it? Can you tell me more about your life there?”
”At my age, you can either have time or you can have dignity.”
”How do you mean?”
”If you're not careful, it gets too late to do anything about it, and ...” He gazed at the convex reflection in the switched-off TV, then around the room. ”I don't want you staying. It's horrible here-that awful b.i.t.c.h next door with her loud music and those little boys of hers that she treats so horribly. I can't bear it. I don't think I should have to keep going forever. It's enough now. I've had an interesting time. I've seen many things. I had friends. Not many. I've had friends. Not many.”
”Have you been lonely in your life, Humphrey?”
”The people who liked me are all in books. I would've loved to meet a woman who took an interest, but it didn't happen. When you and me kept each other company, I wasn't lonely then. We were friends.”
”We were; we are.”
”I'm glad I didn't stop my life earlier. I wouldn't have known Tooly Zylberberg.”
”And I wouldn't have known you,” she said. ”Think how different I would've been. I wouldn't have read John Stuart Mill!”
”Yes, yes,” he said. ”My old friend.”
”Who knows how I'd have ended up without you.”
”I didn't let that happen.”
”I know you didn't, Humph. Thank you.”
”Don't thank me, please. Don't thank me,” he said. ”I can't bear it if you thank me. Please, don't thank me.” He leaned forward, rested his hand atop hers, head bowed, and she saw the crown of his rumpled gray hair.
She exhaled, very slowly.
”I'd like to make you coffee,” he said.
”Let me.”
”Would you?” he responded, as if amazed at such generosity. ”Thank you, do. Thank you, do.” He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed it, dry lips grazing her fingernails.
She walked fast to the communal bathrooms, hugging herself to stifle her distress. She splashed water on her face. He had been forced to use these toilets, these filthy shower stalls, for years. She returned with his mug. This time he drank not in big drafts but slowly, sipping like a connoisseur, like one who wants to pay attention.
As she patted his veiny old hand, it occurred to her that not only would he soon not exist but that, when she no longer existed, no trace of this man would remain anywhere. It would be as if Humphrey, now pulsing before her, had never been. Within a generation or two, not even your photo was identifiable: just a person, at some forgotten event, in old-fas.h.i.+oned clothes, the distractions and appet.i.tes of that day lost, an image framed halfway down a stairwell, or stuck in a drawer, or saved in digital code. Once you; in time, a stranger to all.
Upon leaving the building, she dialed Fogg, needing to be transported from this time and this place. As the call clicked through the circuits-in that instant of hissing quiet-she antic.i.p.ated his buoyant voice. Yet by the first ring, regret gripped her. She had to tell him definitively.
It was the first time they'd spoken in weeks, and Fogg had much to recount. ”Where do I even start? We've had drama of the highest order here in Caergenog: police are investigating criminal damage to two pushed-over fence posts on Dyfed Lane.”
She smiled. ”I miss being there.”
”Yes, yes-what torment,” he said, ”you living it up there in New York City.”
”Did you talk to any bookstores in Hay yet?” she asked. ”I told you-sparkling reference from me, whenever you want.”
”That's settled then, is it? You're not coming back?”
She shook her head, said nothing. ”I have to stop your wages soon. I'm so sorry, Fogg. World's End is yours for a penny, if you want it. All stock included. You'd still have to cover the rent. And utilities. Probably, I should pay you to take the place. Would if I could.”
That evening, she lay in bed, remembering Xavi-lately, she kept thinking of him. She went upstairs to help herself to a drink, and awoke one of the McGrorys' laptops. She typed in his name: Xavier Karamage. As ever, the only result was a middle-aged white businessman with a red mustache, the director of a company at the International Financial Services Centre in Dublin.
She called the number. There was no answer-it would be dawn on the other side of the Atlantic. So she waited. At 4:12 A.M. Connecticut time, she tried again. A receptionist picked up. It was good luck, the woman remarked, since the company staffed the office only one day a week. Tooly asked if Mr. Karamage was present. He was not. Further questioning indicated that he didn't often appear-indeed, the receptionist had yet to meet him, despite having worked there for two years.
”The name is so unusual,” Tooly said. ”African, right?”