Claudius Tharasea Paetus, upon opening his veins (AD 66)
In the empty house silent within the night winds he scraped a can of dinner into the saucepan and stood waiting for it to cook while his hands held one another on the white enamel coolness of the stove not far from the burner, and he wondered how the stove could stay so cool when the chili was already boiling. He swallowed his pill, in much the same spirit of obedience as when at the board table restaurant in Phnom Penh he'd drunk a fruit shake because that was religious food. He ate dinner, and put the saucepan in the sink to wash later. He picked up the newspaper and read Khmer Rouge sees opening in Cambodia chaos and he thought of the place where they'd suffocated babies by the hundreds, hanging them from the branches to choke inside plastic bags. He thought of the scars on Vanna's back.
On the marriage bureau wall, dozens of green lizards waited, light green with silver legs. They waited for him because he'd married her.
He was so alone! With his other wife he'd been resentful when he did what she wanted and guilty when he didn't, and after either failure, once she'd driven off into the night screaming and weeping so that in the middle of his anger he was terrified that she might get into an accident, then he'd lie down on his stomach on their double bed, waiting for the trembling and the sickening stabs in his guts to go away, and then when he felt a little better he'd go into his study to find his address book — he had to find someone who could help him; he had to! — it was the infatuation with wise men all over again — and he'd lie back on the double bed with his heartbeats almost shattering his chest; he was speeding through the pages like an addict: his two best friends in San Francisco didn't answer; in New York it was too late now; he devoured the numbers for Arizona and Nebraska but there was nobody anywhere; he was so alone! — that was the worst part of those arguments, the dread in the middle of the shouting that afterward, no matter what, he'd be so alone. .
But something had changed in him. He knew now what he wanted. The other girls had helped him; the hypnotist had revivified his desires; the disease had given him a directness and urgency which he'd never had before in his life. He loved Vanna and no one else. One way or another he was going to be with her.
The reception room at CBS on that slow summer Friday was like some dream too stuporous to be affected by doom, the security guard's martyred face personifying the hum of lights, the black leather swivel chairs waiting for buttocks, the old reception man shaking his head in weary amazement, saying: I tell ya, George! while ladies with legal pads and sodas wandered in past the metal detector and messengers trudged out bearing big square boxes of disbelief on their shoulders. A man whose slacks were composed of some spongy effete material leaned over the reception desk, offering an almost alarming view of his fat ass. Grizzled cameramen strolled out yawning, their scuffed leather shoulderbags resting easy in place now that continued use had worn a hollow in each scapulum.
I tell ya, George! the reception man said again. All right, she says you can go up now. Second floor, first right. What's that you said, George? 'Scuse me but I got interrupted.
You don't look well, Padgett said to him. You've got to get over it. I've been divorced twice, and the second one was just as hard as the first, but I got over it. I hate to say this to you, but your work is slipping.
I'm fine, he said. Maybe a little tired is all. So you can't use me?
I hate to have you put it to me like that, Padgett said, neatening papers on her desk. I really thought you understood.
I understand now. Do you have any advice for me? Seems like lately I've been asking everyone for advice. .
I know how it is, Padgett said. It's hard to be alone again, isn't it?
I'm not alone. I just got married.
Well, congratulations. Who's the lucky lady?
Someone I met in Cambodia.
That's fabulous, Padgett said. Why didn't you send me an invitation? Listen, I've got a meeting I have to go to. Thank you so much for dropping by -
He picked up the newspaper and read Khmer Rouge officials return to Phnom Penh and there was a photo of someplace blurry; he thought he recognized the place where the English teacher's friend, another fatherless boy, said that his girlfriend, who died of a headache in 1989, was cremated.
He said to himself: For me to get through this, I'm going to have to stop reading the papers.
He said to himself: I'll be a fine one then. A journalist who doesn't read the papers.
He picked up the newspaper and read More rioting in Phnom Penh.
He picked up the newspaper and read Bloody Clash in Cambodia.
It was lunch hour at the Time-Life Plaza and he lurked among the people squeezing balls of aluminum foil in their hands, sitting on the edge of the pool whose row of fountain-foams resembled the heads of asparagus. He was waiting for an editor from Asia Today to come outside. Maybe the editor would give him a job. Businessmen in amazing shoes strode past cigarette butts, and golden monograms glittered on their heels. The businesswomen in "burgundy" dress suits — the standard color — dangled their high heels. Then the editor from Asia Today came out, and he looked into the editor's face while the editor looked into his face and he saw that there was no sense in even asking.
The funny thing was that he couldn't feel anything wrong inside him yet. He thought he looked great. The doctor said that right now he was only HIV positive. It would be two to six years before he developed ARC, which was to say an AIDS-related condition, which was to say being sick, and then once he got sick enough they would be able to note down in his medical records that he had AIDS. It was easy to believe that the virus wasn't doing anything yet, but of course it had already begun wearing him down moment by moment, like a river undercutting its banks. When he was in Phnom Penh the Tonlé Sap had been rising, so people were laying down mounds of fresh dirt with shovels, walking on them, smoothing them out. A little boy was swimming beside his porch. It happened every monsoon season, they said. The air smelled like fish. There were crowds. A woman was wading from one house to the next. Serious crowds with spades tamped down the levee.
~ ~ ~
The photographer called him and said: Well, I just heard from your friend Sien. That disco's finished. They closed it down.
What happened to the girls?
The girls? Probably in some fucking concentration camp. I'd say you better kiss off any chance you had of finding Vanna again. Sien's out of it. He doesn't want to get involved anymore. You better go to Thailand and shop around. There are thousands like her. It's too bad, though. That disco was GREAT! And I feel sorry for those poor girls. .
What do you think Vanna would have done if I'd been able to get her home? What would she have done when I first took her through my front door?
Remember when you asked me that before? I told you she would shit in her pants, man! She would have loved you so much for your money! She would have never ever left you. .