Which, now?
The—the what do you call it?—the ritual.
Did I?
We counted down the final minute of the year, as is customary, yes? And then my guests gathered at the windows overlooking the courtyard, as there was a commotion outside.
They called us over. I was very drunk, but I made it in time to see a few of the trees. I had not been told about this practice, though it was, in its way, elegant.
Everyone was throwing their trees off their balconies, Turk said.
Yes, the trees, raining down into the courtyard and all the men in their tuxedos and the women in their evening gloves—quite elegant, you know, throwing their champagne flutes after the trees, Hiwatt said.
It’s been a while since I’ve seen that.
A building tradition, I assumed? We felt compelled—my guests felt compelled—I was, as they say, plowed by then, ha ha—to join in. I was apparently unable to contribute in a meaningful way and my classmates carried me to the sofa, where I awoke only this very afternoon. Shoeless and wearing a feather boa!
So your friends tossed the tree out the window, Turk said.
I can only assume that is the case. The Christmas tree is gone, ergo… I’m truly sorry, Miss Turk. I should have waited for your return?
No, no, Turk said. It’s just strange. No one’s done that for years.
We acted properly, I believe, in the spirit of the season? Perhaps next year you can stay in the city for New Year’s?
Perhaps, Turk said.
Oh, and there was something else, but… It’s strange—it’s the alcohol. I’m not used to it. Give me a bowl of hash any day…
Turk waited for a couple of beats, then said, Something happened?
Oh yes. I can’t say exactly. I believe something happened. There was a Russian student here, and I believe my classmates—no, some friends of theirs, perhaps—it was very crowded, a smash hit of a party… Hiwatt, smiling faintly, drifted off into a recollection of the night’s grandeur.
What about the Russian? Turk said.
Oh yes! He arrived wearing a tuxedo! Isn’t that funny? And his hair was black, and like an explosion, an atomic bomb. I don’t know who invited him, but he was very demanding, ordering everyone around. He repeatedly called me boy, even after I made clear that I was the host. Strange fellow. There were so many people here I didn’t know.
Turk looked around the kitchen, out through the door into the dining room. Not a picture askew, not a bowl out of place.
Then, later, I was on my back, on the sofa, perhaps even then shoeless, and the Russian fellow was being held aloft, like this, you see, on everyone’s hands? He was kicking and twisting, and everyone was laughing at his predicament. They were moving toward the balcony—the doors were open and the curtains were streaming inward quite beautifully on the wind, and everyone was shouting over the music. Their faces were so bright and the girls were all flushed, the backs of their arms splotchy and red, as if they’d been exercising vigorously.
And what was this Russian boy saying?
As I recall, he was shouting, as well, though with Russians it can be hard to tell whether they’re shouting or just speaking in that imperious manner of theirs—anyway, he was making noises as they approached the balcony doors. Some of the boys were wearing skirts! I’ve just remembered this. Isn’t that funny, how these images drift in and out?
What happened to him?
Obviously, I believe they intended to carry him to the balcony, you know, to pitch him out like a Christmas tree.
To pretend to throw him over. To frighten him.
To frighten him, yes. Or, perhaps, to throw him down to the courtyard with the trees. Hiwatt shrugged and went on. I’ve seen instances of this sort of behavior. Crowds can be very excitable. Generally speaking, one can expect a crowd to behave badly.
I assume no harm came to the boy, since I didn’t come home to an apartment full of cops, Turk said.
If only I could say for sure. I fell asleep.
Turk went to the window and peered down into the courtyard.
And the tree? The tree went out before or after the Russian?
After? No, before. It’s hard to remember what happened, in what order.
We should call one of your friends to get the story, don’t you think?
That’s a splendid idea, Hiwatt said, but neither of them made a move for the phone.
What else did they throw out? Turk said.
Hiwatt smiled, his lips peeling back to expose the perfect arches of his white teeth. I’m terribly sorry, Miss Turk, he said. There was one other thing.
Turk raised an eyebrow at him.
Yes, I regret to inform you that your big earthen bowl, for the cheese—the, ah—what do you call it—the heavy one you put over the fire?
The fondue pot?
Yes. I regret to inform you that I have not been able to locate it.
Turk fell back in her chair as if she’d been punched in the chest. She threw her arms over her head and shrieked. Savages!
Hiwatt giggled.
Out the window? Turk said.
No doubt out the window, Hiwatt said, whistling.
Wish I’d been here, said Turk.
There was a somber air to Turk and Hiwatt’s work. Branches came off in their hands, cracking sharply, shedding waves of brown needles that disappeared into crevices to await a distant, yet unborn great-niece or -nephew, onto whom someday would fall the task of conducting the posthumous cleaning of Great Aunt T’s apartment.
Maybe, if we conduct a thorough enough search, we’ll uncover the Russian, Turk said.
A mummy, Hiwatt said.
Hiwatt, did you actually have a party?
Oh, I’m certain I did.
You weren’t here alone, eating pills?
That’s possible. All things are possible, are they not? Without corroborating evidence, who could say whether there might or might not have been a party? Perhaps even both. A party and not a party! Perhaps at this very moment in a parallel universe, we are not cleaning up a Christmas tree!
Lucky us, Turk said.
Silently, with the singular focus of the deeply stoned, in blissful harmonic coordination, they wrapped each ornament in crepe paper and stacked them in cardboard boxes; floated tinsel into paper Zabar’s bags; crammed the lights into little shoebox coffins to be buried in a closet for another year.
We could burn it, Turk said when they were finished.
Even in his altered state, Hiwatt knew this was a bad idea.
Too large for the fireplace, he said.
Ah.
We’ll call one of the servants, yes? Hiwatt said.
Tanawat, they’re employees of the building. They’re unionized.
So should we not call the unionized employee-servants of the building to carry away the tree?
No. Yes. Yes, we should call them, but… be respectful.
Am I not respectful? Hiwatt said, genuinely wounded by the implication that his behavior could be interpreted any other way.
On occasion you reveal the royal aspects of your upbringing.
I am far from royalty, I assure you. The blood connection is on my mother’s side, and fairly distant.
Turk got up to call the lobby, but when she dialed, no one answered. She tapped on the switch hook, tried again, no answer.
It’s late, Turk said. He’s probably in the basement playing cards, she said. After a long draught of pot-fueled contemplation she said, We’ll do it ourselves.
Pardon?
Grab a branch. A sturdy one.
As you wish, miss.
They managed to work the tree loose and get it through the doorway, taking out a few hallway pictures and upending a console table in the process, and leaving a massacre of needles in their wake. They grunted and heaved the thing through the apartment, claiming a few more victims—a set of jade figurines, a small flower vase—and arrived at the service door soaked in sweat.