“He put his hand to his waist and bowed very deeply. It was a wonderful gesture—silly, cute, and kind of shy. I gave him a little round of applause and opened the flap.
“And screamed. What? What was this? Why was he showing it to me now? Why at all? At first I didn’t recognize myself. There was a shrunken, diseased, hairless thing propped in a white chair, its mouth open and curved down as if it was gasping for breath. The eyes were so deep back into the skull that you didn’t think they were eyes at all. I shouted at him, ‘What is this? What are these? War pictures? Why now, for God’s sake, why show them to me now?’
“Without knowing what I was doing, I let the photo slip out of my hand, but there was another, and it was worse, because then I recognized who was there. In spite of my horror I looked, then I threw down all the pictures and jumped back across the bed away from them, away from him.
“The second was clearly of me, this monstrosity, lying on my bed in the beautiful nightgown I was planning to wear for him that night. And she was dead. Shrunken and diseased and emptied of anything that had ever been human. Me. It was me there. The nightgown, my bed, and just enough of something in the face to show it was a picture of me. Yes. Yes. Me. No one else could have looked at it and known, but I did.”
By then Wyatt had lowered his head to his lap. I leaned down over him and put my arms over his back. I smelled his cologne and felt how tense his muscles were. I spoke almost in a whisper.
“Leland walked over and picked them off the floor. He paid no attention to me as he went through them. There must have been ten. He’d hold one out and say, ‘I think this one’s good. Shows all the delicious wrinkles in your skin. The National Enquirer would love it. “Sex Goddess Dies of AIDS! Exclusive pictures inside.” ’
“When he was done going through them and admiring his own work, he dropped them on the floor and sat on the edge of the bed. ‘That’s what you’d have looked like, Arlen, give or take a few months. Hey, remember what your favorite poet Charles Simic says? “Death has a cock that is always erect.” I stole lots of lines from him, and you thought they were so cool. Dumbass ditz.’ He lay back on the bed and yawned. I didn’t move. ‘But to tell you the truth, Arlen, the thought of fucking you and having to stick around here any longer bores me. You bore me. Call your pal Wyatt if you have any questions. He knows who I am.’ He stood up, and the last thing he said before walking out was ‘If you ever want to kill a dog, use strychnine; it’s much more vivid.’ ”
Wyatt groaned and slowly straightened up. “The moment I walked into that restaurant and saw who was with you, I almost died.” He looked at me and laughed, a real laugh, deep and full. “I wanted to meet this guy so much. The man who stole Arlen Ford’s heart. I remembered him from that one meeting, but it was all so quick that I only vaguely recalled what he looked like. But this time when I saw you, you were at the table with Philip Strayhorn.”
“It was Phil? You actually saw Phil with me?”
“Yes. And when you introduced him as Leland, he looked at me and smirked as if we were in on the joke together. I guess we always see the person from our dreams.”
“But I didn’t have dreams like you and the others!”
Wyatt shook his head as if I were missing the point. “I know. It’s worse for you because he’s been here in real life for you all along.”
“So, he kills you with a disease and me by destroying anything I’ve ever loved or believed in. He joked once about how I was always cleaning. Said I seemed to be in a constant state of getting ready for company. But I was never neat before I moved to Austria. I just wanted to keep the few things around me in order. For once. Don’t you think it’s better that way, knowing where things are? I guess I was getting my life in order so that I could give it up. But I still have a lot of questions to ask you, Wyatt.”
In an instant his face went from sadness to great anger. His normally pale cheeks flushed bright red. “What can I tell you that you don’t already know? Death’s here. What could be simpler? He’s probably in this room somewhere listening to us, but what difference does it make? To me He’s Strayhorn, to you He’s Leland whatever his last name is. The people He likes, He kills nicely. No muss, no fuss. That’s for me, you see. I wanted to know answers, so my ‘pal’ gave them to me. Result? I’m so scared, I don’t even want to get up from this couch. His answers don’t mean anything. They didn’t help me understand.
“He doesn’t like you, for some mysterious or stupid reason, so He tricked you into loving Him as you’ve never loved anyone. When you got to the point where you were willing to die for Him, really die, first He killed your dog, then He showed you your mother’s diary, then hurt your friend. As you said, everything you loved. Result? It only made you need Him more, because He was the last thing left. Am I right? Then He showed you those pictures as His coup de grace. He didn’t want to waste the time sleeping with you and infecting you, because you’re a bore. A bore!
“What other questions do you have, Arlen? Oh, that’s right, I’m the guy with answers to the big questions because I’ve talked to Death. And you think that means I know something? I know nothing. None of His answers helped because none of them applies to now, this minute, when we’re still here and alive but down to nothing. Don’t you see? He begins by giving you everything you want—love and hope, or answers when you’re scared, but none of it helps or protects you. Maybe you think it does for a while, but it doesn’t. He’s insidious. Look at us now. We’re both finished. What was that word you used, chalef?”
“That which from life to death transforms. He’s the shochet.”
“Right. Get a coffin. Write a will. It’s over.”
That afternoon while Wyatt sat with a drink in his hands and didn’t want to talk anymore, I took my bicycle and went out riding. It was something I’d often done in California when life got to be too much of a pressure cooker. I’d get on the bike and ride until I was physically exhausted and I had no more energy to worry about what I’d been worrying about. Because I’m so hyper, it sometimes took hours, but it never failed to work.
This time I rode down to the Danube and flung myself into pedaling pedaling pedaling until the fire in my legs and pumping of my chest took some of the fear and confusion out of my heart. I knew I couldn’t escape, but I could turn the volume down, and maybe that would help me think more clearly. I hoped so.
I rode beside the water, watching barges from Russia and Bulgaria go by, bicycles and laundry lines on their decks, people moving about their lives out there on that famous water. I thought about Leland and my life and what was happening, what Wyatt had said, and what little could be done now to turn any of this away. I passed old couples walking arm in arm, pointing to things along the way. I passed families and knew I would never have a family. I passed kids, dogs. My dog was dead. He had killed it. What had I done to deserve His hatred? What did anyone do to deserve Death? I rode and rode.
I rode into Vienna and then out again, still along the water. There were people sunbathing and throwing Frisbees. I remembered the time with the Easterlings up on their Happy Hill and the red Viszla that liked to catch the Frisbee. I thought of Minnie. I thought of Him poisoning the dog. What had she done to deserve that? What had I done? Was it just hatred? Did Death just hate, and that was the final answer? He just hated and there was no other reason for what He did to all of us?