The young cop starts pushing me to one side to slap on the cuffs.
“Now, wait a minute,” the older one says. “You have to wait till he goes along with my little demonstration. . You got something to say?” he threatens me, moving in closer.
He’s turning up the heat. I can see in the young cop’s eyes that he feels the difference too. He doesn’t know what might happen in this room either.
“I already talked to the police.”
“And who the hell are we?” he bursts out.
He rolls his nightstick along my thigh. We move into the sexual mode, the most dangerous part. The slightest reaction could be taken as a provocation.
“I mean the two other policemen who were here the night of the accident.”
“Hey, there, not so fast! It’s up to me to say whether there was an accident or not. In my book, there was a murder, and I’ve got a suspect.”
“They took the earrings and the letter…”
“What letter?” asks the young cop, who knows nothing about the case.
“The letter she wrote to her parents.”“Are you trying to insinuate that the Montreal police would steal jewelry from a whore?” he challenges, pushing his nightstick against my penis. The nightstick is an extension of his hand. The young cop notices his little game and immediately turns red.
“They put everything into a little bag,” I continue, paying no attention to the sexual game.
“Slap the handcuffs on him,” he says, looking me in the eye.
I don’t move. They push me again. At the last minute the older cop puts a stop to the ballet. A real burlesque. Meanwhile, I’m still somewhere in ancient Japan. I’m no longer part of the circus unfolding before my eyes.
“Now you’re going to show me where you hide the coke.”
“I don’t do coke.”
He moves on me again. As close as he can, with his nightstick. It’s becoming an obsession.
“I’m talking about the coke you sell.”
“I don’t sell coke, either.”
I’ve made the mistake of answering too quickly. We’re in dialogue mode. I had better slow down, and fast. The cop keeps moving closer, which makes his young partner uncomfortable. Don’t worry, in a few years he’ll master the art of playing with black men’s penises with his nightstick. And he’ll fondly remember his first lesson.
“What with you selling coke. .” Now he picks up the rhythm. “The neighbors are complaining.”
I don’t answer. He pushes my thighs apart with his leg. He is so close all I can see is his stomach (he’s in good shape for an old guy) — though, from the corner of my eye, I catch sight of the younger guy. A look of interest has replaced his discomfort.
“Where do you hide it?”
A pause. Rhythm is everything here. Interrogation demands a special tempo. Too quick, and you’re in confrontation mode. Too slow, and you’re impertinent. Discreetly, I tap my right foot to the rhythm, which creates a light but insistent pressure on the policeman’s thigh.
“Screw you!”
And he hits me in the shoulder. The young cop is worried. You’re not supposed to hit a citizen who represents no apparent danger. He tells himself that if he doesn’t react, he’ll become an accomplice. His career has just started. He’s wondering what is happening. I can see that in his worried mouse eyes. The older cop heads for the bathroom. He slams the door on his partner, who was following after him. The older cop spends a while there. I hear the water run. The younger cop gives me a look, trying to understand what has just happened. A neutral face. A young guy who just joined the force. A lot of times, young kids from the country have no idea how big-city cops act. They’ve never seen blacks or Arabs in their part of the world.
“Where do you come from?”
He hesitates.
“Gaspé.”
“I’ve been to Trois-Pistoles.”
His face brightens.
“My mother’s from Trois-Pistoles. . What’s happening? Why did he hit you?”
“No idea.”
We heard the toilet flush. The cop came out, a big stain on his pants.
“I got soaked,” he said with a sheepish look. “Let’s go. I got a desk full of paperwork to do.”
I understand then that his little raid has been a personal initiative. He saw the file with my address. He came here to intimidate me, knowing that I wouldn’t be stupid enough to complain.
THE TIME OF THE MIMOSAS
SOME PEOPLE OWN their time: “I’ve got all day.” Others are owned by it: “I don’t have the time.” Then there’s the “lost time” of the suicide. Mishima refused to enjoy the time that was rightfully his, not wishing to abuse the instinct to conserve. The worldly man’s need to conserve frightened him. The adventurer Morand tried to go faster than time. Spur on the horses! Desire is an excellent compass. The more you desire something, the shorter time seems. Unless you’re waiting for a phone call from a woman you met the day before. In Tokyo, a place I’ve never been, time is kept in pretty little lacquered cases. If you want three days, they will sell them to you. For money? No. You can pay for time only with other time. They will sell you three gray days for two sunny days and one sad night. Or an hour for one fresh kiss. I would like to buy Japanese time with mimosas running with rain. Basho makes you think he is traveling outside of time.
THE WEATHER GIRL
I TURNED ON THE TV. Actually, I just bumped up the sound, because I never turn the set off. I remember an old Hungarian immigrant I met at the airport when I first got here. He insisted on giving me this piece of advice: “Here, in America, you never turn off the television.” I’ve been proving him right all these years. I want to see everything without really looking. I did some channel-surfing and came across Midori dressed as the Weather Girl. She was on a local cable channel I never watch. I don’t know anyone on it. People watch tv to see the people they’ve seen on other channels. Virtual socializing. They feel less alone. It’s a busy world out there. People arriving, people leaving. New faces that hope to be the latest on the scene. Others come on only at dinner, then disappear. Actually, they end up somewhere else, on shows I don’t watch. Sometimes you can spot them when you’re doing your TV window shopping, and you’re amazed to see them in some less desirable district. Some of them have frayed collars. Ah, times are tough. All it takes is one small intellectual breakdown, and they end up with the hoi polloi and those hayseed stars with their loud ties. That is, if they don’t fall all the way down to the circus acts, guys who laugh when some woman gets beat up or want to send all the immigrants back where they came from. The former star host who discovers that the fall, when it comes to TV, can be endless.