“Oh yes. And then?”
“I hit him. We smiled. We nodded. We passed, and I transferred the ax to my right hand. Just as I had rehearsed. And I hit him. It made a sound. I can’t describe it. A sound. And he fell forward so heavily that it pulled the ax out of my hand. I didn’t know that might happen. But I didn’t panic. Jesus, I was cool. Cold! I bent down and twisted the ax to pull it free. Tough. I had to put my foot on the back of his neck and pull up on the ax with both hands to free it. I did that. I did it! And then I found his wallet and took his driver’s license. To prove to you.”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“Didn’t I?”
“Yes. You did.”
They both laughed then, and rolled on the soiled bed, holding.
He tried, again, to enter into her and did not succeed, not caring, for he had already surpassed her. But he would not tell her that since she knew. She took his penis into her mouth, not licking or biting, but just in her mouth: a warm communion. He was hardly conscious of it; it did not excite him. He was a god; she was worshipping.
“One other thing,” he said dreamily. “When, finally, on the night, I looked down the street and saw him walking toward me through that orange glow, and I thought yes, now, he is the one, I loved him so much then, loved him.”
“Loved him? Why?”
“I don’t know. But I did. And respected him. Oh yes. And had such a sense of gratitude toward him. That he was giving. So much. To me. Then I killed him.”
2
“Good-morning, Charles,” Daniel called, and the doorman whirled around, shocked by the friendly voice and pleasant smile. “Looks like a sunny day today.”
“Oh. Yes sir,” Lipsky said, confused. “Sunny day. That’s what the paper said. Cab, Mr. Blank?”
“Please.”
The doorman went down to the street, whistled up a taxi, rode it back to the apartment house entrance. He got out and held the door open for Daniel.
“Have a good day, Mr. Blank.”
“You too, Charles,” and handed him the usual quarter. He gave the driver the address of the Javis-Bircham Building.
“Go through the park, please. I know it’s longer but I’ve got time.”
“Sure.”
“Looks like a nice sunny day today.”
“That’s what the radio just said,” the driver nodded. “You sound like you feel good today.”
“Yes,” Blank smiled. “I do.”
“Morning, Harry,” he said to the elevator starter. “A nice sunny morning.”
“Sure is, Mr. Blank. Hope it stays like this.”
“Good-morning, Mrs. Cleek,” Blank said to his secretary as he hung away his hat and coat. “Looks like it’s going to be a beautiful day.”
“Yes sir. I hope it lasts.”
“It will.” He looked at her closely a moment. “Mrs. Cleek, you seem a bit pale. Are you feeling all right?”
She blushed with pleasure at his concern. “Oh yes, Mr. Blank, I feel fine.”
“How’s that boy of yours?”
“I got a letter from him yesterday. He’s doing very well. He’s in a military academy, you know.”
Blank didn’t, but nodded. “Well, you do look a bit weary. Why don’t you plan on taking a few Fridays off? It’s going to be a long winter. We all need relaxation.”
“Why…thank you very much, Mr. Blank. That’s very kind of you.”
“Just let me know in advance and arrange for someone from the pool to fill in. That’s a pretty dress.”
“Thank you very much, Mr. Blank,” she repeated, dazed. “Your coffee is on your desk, and a report came down from upstairs. I put it next to your coffee.”
“What’s it about?”
“Oh, I didn’t read it, sir. It’s sealed and confidential.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Cleek. I’ll buzz when I want to do letters.”
“Thank you again, Mr. Blank. For the days off, I mean.” He smiled and made a gesture. He sat down at his bare table and sipped coffee, staring at the heavy manila envelope from the president’s office, stamped CONFIDENTIAL. He didn’t open it, but taking his plastic container of coffee walked to the plate glass windows facing west.
It was an extraordinarily clear day, the smog mercifully lifted. He could see tugboats on the Hudson, a cruise liner putting out to sea, traffic on the Jersey shore, and blue hills far away. Everything was bright and glittering, a new world. He could almost peer into a distant future.
He drained his coffee and looked into the plastic cup. It was white foam, stained now, and of the consistency of cottage cheese. It bulged in his grip and felt of soap. He flicked on his intercom.
“Sir?” Mrs. Cleek asked.
“Would you do me a favor?”
“Of course, sir.”
“On your lunch hour-well, take your usual hour, of course, but then take some more time-grab a cab over to Tiffany’s or Jensen’s-someplace like that-and buy me a coffee cup and saucer. Something good in bone China, thin and white. You can buy singles from open stock. If it’s patterned, pick out something attractive, something you like. Don’t be afraid to spend money.”
“A coffee cup and saucer, sir?”
“Yes, and see if you can find a spoon, one of those small silver French spoons. Sometimes they’re enameled in blue patterns, flowered patterns. That would be fine.”
“One coffee cup, one saucer, and one spoon. Will that be all, sir?”
“Yes-no. Get the same thing for yourself. Get two sets.”
“Oh, Mr. Blank, I couldn’t-”
“Two sets,” he said firmly. “And Mrs. Cleek, from now on when the commissary delivers my coffee, will you pour it into my new cup and leave it on my desk that way?”
“Yes, Mr. Blank.”
“Keep track of what you spend, including cab fares there and back. I’ll pay you personally. This is not petty cash.”
“Yes, Mr. Blank.”
He clicked off and picked up the president’s envelope, having no great curiosity to open it. He searched the outside.
Finally, sighing, he tore open the flap and scanned the two-sheet memo swiftly. It was about what he had expected, considering the lack of zeal in his prospectus. His suggestion of having AMROK II compute the ratio between editorial and advertising in all Javis-Bircham magazines was approved to this extent: it would be tried on an experimental basis on the ten magazines listed on the attached page, and would be limited to a period of six months, after which time a production management consultant would be called in to make an independent evaluation of the results.
Blank tossed the memo aside, stretched, yawned. He couldn’t, he realized, care less. It was a crock of shit. Then he picked up the memo again and wandered out of the office.
“I’ll be in the Computer Room,” he said as he passed Mrs. Cleek’s desk. She gave him a bright, hopeful smile.
He went through the nonsense of donning the sterile white skull cap and duster, then assembled Task Force X-1 about the stainless steel table. He passed around the second sheet of the president’s memo, deeming it wise, at this time, not to tell them of the experimental nature and limited duration of the project.
“We’ve got the go-ahead,” he said, with what he hoped they would think was enthusiasm. “These are the magazines we start with. I want to draw up a schedule of priorities for programming. Any ideas?”
The discussion started at his left and went around the table. He listened to all of them, watching their pale, sexless faces, not hearing a word that was said.
“Excellent,” he said occasionally. Or, “Very good.” Or, “I’ll take a raincheck on that.” Or, “Well…I don’t want to say no, but…” It didn’t make any difference: what they said or what he said. It had no significance.
Significance began, I suppose, when my wife and I separated. Or when she wouldn’t wear the sunglasses to bed. Oh, it probably began much sooner, but I wasn’t aware of it. I was aware of the glasses, the masks. And then, later, the wigs, the exercises, the clothes, the apartment…the mirrors. And standing naked in chains. I was aware of all that. I mean, I was conscious of it.