I expected a long wait for any result and I had misgivings about the possible waste of police time but the next day I had a call from Sergeant Hennessy.
‘We’ve got a man here who answers your description except no smell, wrong name and fifty thousand dollars. Would you know anything about that?’
‘Yes, I would. He didn’t steal it.’
‘He says his name is Joe Fontana and he doesn’t know you. If you’d like to have a look at him come to the station today because we’ve got nothing but a vagrancy charge to hold him on. Unless you’ve got some other charge to make.’
‘Where’d you find him?’ I said.
‘He was sleeping on a veranda in Alamo Square. The owners of the house were away but a neighbour reported a vagrant on the premises.’
‘You guys sure work fast. I’ll be right over.’
When I arrived at the station Sergeant Hennessy showed me into what I suppose was a small interrogation room where the artist formerly known as Volatore was sitting at a table.
‘Is this going to be distressing for you in any way?’ Hennessy asked me.
‘No,’ I said, ‘it isn’t that kind of thing.’
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Here’s Mr Fontana. No ID, no address, new clothes and Timberlands with paint smears. And fifty thousand smackers.’
‘That’s him,’ I said.
‘Shall I leave you to it,’ said Hennessy, ‘or do you want me to stick around?’
‘Please do — I’m sure you’re better at asking useful questions than I am.’
‘You start and I’ll stand by for the time being.’ To Fontana he said, ‘I’ve already told you that you’re not charged with anything but vagrancy. This lady thinks you might be able to help her.’
‘OK,’ said Fontana to me. ‘How can I help you?’
‘Why did you tell me your name was Volatore?’
‘I’ve never heard that name till now and I’ve never seen you before.’
‘Do you remember where you got the fifty thousand dollars?’
‘I didn’t even know I had it until the cops frisked me and counted it.’
‘You don’t remember doing a painting?’
‘You mean a picture?’
‘Yes.’
‘No, I wouldn’t know about anything like that.’
‘Forgive me if my questions seem strange. Can you recall any weird dreams you’ve had lately?’
‘Dreams are personal.’
‘Of course they are.’
‘So why should I tell you mine? I’ve got fifty thousand bucks that I didn’t steal and I can stop being a vagrant and answering questions.’
‘Calm down,’ said Hennessy. ‘Maybe I’ll book you for committing public nuisance.’
‘What public nuisance?’
‘Peeing in the bushes in Alamo Square. Now answer the lady.’
‘Dreams?’ I said.
‘No.’ To Hennessy he said, ‘Go ahead and book me for peeing in the bushes, I’m pretty sure I can pay the fine. Whatever dreams I have belong to me and nobody else.’
‘Do you remember Lenore Goldfarb?’ I asked him.
‘No. Should I?’
‘She paid you that money for a painting.’
‘I never heard of the lady.’
‘I can arrange for her to refresh your memory.’
‘What for?’
‘She paid you that money for a painting that came from a dream. The painting is in the Eidolon Gallery now. Would you like to see it?’
‘No.’
‘This is kind of interesting,’ said Hennessy. ‘Do you want us to take him to your gallery?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘I don’t think I have to agree to that,’ said Fontana.
‘Yes, you do,’ said Hennessy, ‘or I may have to take you in hand for resisting arrest.’
‘But I haven’t resisted arrest.’
‘That can be arranged, fella.’
So we went to the gallery and Hennessy stood Fontana in front of the painting.
‘Funny thing,’ said Hennessy, ‘looking at that makes me a little woozy.’
‘What about him?’ said Olivia.
Fontana was lying on the floor. He had fainted. We brought him around with a little cold water in his face and sat him up. The paintings on the walls suddenly looked empty, as if the virtue had left them. Paintings! I thought, what an odd thing to do.
‘Can I go now?’ said Fontana.
‘What about the painting?’ I asked him. ‘It’s your own work.’
‘I don’t remember doing it and looking at it makes me a little sick. I don’t know what else I can tell you.’
By this time I was pretty sure that Hennessy felt as Olivia and I did: Fontana was the victim of some kind of temporary mind alteration and was still in a frail state.
‘Where are you going when you leave here?’ Hennessy asked him.
‘First I’ll get myself a place, then I’ll think what to do next.’
‘Here’s my card,’ said Hennessy. ‘Phone me and tell me where you’ll be. I don’t want you to pass out somewhere and be lying unfound for days.’
‘Thanks,’ said Fontana.
‘Give you a lift anywhere?’ said Hennessy.
‘That’s a lot of money to be carrying around,’ I said. ‘We can keep most of it here in the safe for you or open an account for you at our bank.’
‘OK,’ said Fontana. He had fifty thousand-dollar bills. He peeled off one and gave me the rest. ‘Please just keep it here for now,’ he said.
‘So?’ said Hennessy. ‘Lift?’
‘Thanks,’ said Fontana. ‘I’m going to do some walking to clear my head.’
With that he left. Odourlessly, the man who was not my Volatore.
Chapter 43. Farnesses of Tinyness
I am confused, forlorn, full of doubts. Again and again I try to send my thoughts and fears to Angelica but there is no response from her. Have my messages gone astray? Is she sending messages to me?
Now I wonder how things have come to this pass. How did I come to be stranded in this nowhereness, half out of one reality, half into another? Where and when was the beginning of it? My memory is scattering into dancing colours, blurs and flashes swooping to escarpments of eyes, caverns of listening, farnesses of tinyness. A sorcerer told me to go where I went, I looked into an eye and saw the beginning or was it the end of me?
Chapter 44. Dos Arbolitos, Endlessly Rocking
I gave Dr Levy notice and moved on to my third shrink, Dr Long. Dave Michnik, one of our painters, said he was a no-bullshit guy. Dr Long worked out of a houseboat called Dos Arbolitos at Sausalito. The dancing ripple pattern on the ceiling was reassuring and the gentle lapping of the water endlessly rocking made me feel sleepy and safe.
‘Dos Arbolitos,’ I said. ‘Two little trees.’
‘You know the song?’
‘I’ve got a CD with it but all I remember is the title and the fact that it’s a huapango. Is there a story behind that name for your houseboat?’
‘There’s a story behind everything but let’s talk about you.’
Dr Long was a tall man in jeans and a denim shirt. He had startling blue eyes and a long face that always seemed ready to — and frequently did — break into a half-smile.
‘You don’t look like a shrink,’ I said.
‘I charge like one though,’ he said. ‘What can I do for you? If anything.’