Okay, so there I was, like, walking along, doo-dee-doo-dee-doo, and I
(End of Everything) walked into the East Innesmouth Post Office and
(EOE) the lady at the window, about whom much, much more in a moment, handed me a tattered, oddly heavy manila envelope wrapped in ratty twine, and I
(todo por mi culpabilidad) opened it and…
You know.
“You sound doubtful,” Marena said.
“No, I’m, I’m not, it, uh, it sounds…”
“Yeah, you are. What are you doubtful aboutful?”
“I’m not, I’m…”
“Hi, boss,” Marena said.
“Hi,” a ten-year-old boy’s voice said behind me. It was her kid, Max. “Hi, Uncle Jed.”
I said hi. He’d come up and was hugging me. I kind of hugged back but it felt really awkward for obvious reasons, like, because, you know. Okay, I’ll say it. Because I was going to kill him. Had killed him. Fuck. I was starting not to feel so good. Coming up here had not been a good idea. He pulled away and looked at the Neo-Teo model. The afternoon-light effect had deepened to sunset cerises, and the stone and tiles on the “east” side-which was actually turned to the north-had gone to twilight blues and grays. Window lights and faux-neon signage, with Mayanesque glyphs in new Decoesque fonts, started flickering on. They made the place look a little more like the Syd Mead sets for Blade Runner, but without the grunge.
“Pretty godless, huh?” he asked.
“Your mom’s very talented,” I said.
“Tony says we can order whatever we want for dinner,” he said. He’d gotten the Star Rattler figurine and was unsnapping its segments and reconnecting them in a different order.
“Whatever that’s not Indian,” Marena said.
“What do you do on Sleekers?” he asked me. He must have seen mine in the entryway. I said nothing much yet. “Lookit this,” he said. He stepped back into the hallway, ran in through the door, and in what I guess was a parkour move vaulted one-handed over the desk, somehow avoiding the thicket of monitors. Evidently he activated his Sleekers in midair because he came down in a glide and, just as he was about to crash through the French doors, channeled his momentum into a scratch spin, pulling in his arms and spotting on my face each time. We said wow.
“Wait, that wasn’t good,” he said. “I’m gonna do it again.” He did it again. We told him how great it was and how seeing it again would dilute our enjoyment of its surprising and utterly radical greatness. Marena asked what I wanted for sort of dinner. I started to say how, well, I hadn’t been planning on making them feed me, but she wouldn’t hear of it. She negotiated Max down to a “vegetarian array” of Korean food and he left to give the orders. Fuckez moi, I thought. I’d felt like a jerk before, but it had gotten a whole lot worse, that is, if it’s even possible to be the worst person who ever lived and then get even more disgustingly evil. I’m the bad guy, I thought. Oh, well. He’s still at the stage where things seem interesting. Better for him to just disappear before he finds out what the world’s really like. Who’s “Hey, don’t rapture those Krispy Kremes,” Marena called after him.
“Max is really great,” I said.
“Oh, definitivement, ” she said. “It’s like a whole, it gives you a whole different set of priorities, about what’s important, I mean, momming… hey, guess what he’s going to be tomorrow.”
“Sorry?”
“For trick-or-treating.”
“Oh. I can’t guess.”
“Dick Cheney. He wrote a paper on him for Social Studies.”
“Gosh.”
“Hey, speaking of the date, I got something for you.”
Oh, right, I thought. It’s my birthday. Actually, for Maya folks your name day-mine was three days from now- is a bigger deal, but maybe she didn’t know that. She handed me what was clearly an elephant-folio book, cleverly folded up in blue Genji-cloud kozogami. I coaxed it open without wrap rage. It was a book from 1831, von Stepanwald’s Curious Antiquities of British Honduras. I must have told her how I’d lost my copy and ABE wasn’t finding another.
“Wow,” or something, I said. I thanked her profusely. I flipped through it. The copper engravings-and a few etchings-were as sharp as if they’d been pulled yesterday. “This is great,” I said. There Wait.
Huh.
Hell.
The Citadel of the Ocelot Dynasty at Ixnichi Sotz in Ancient Days
As It Was Described by Senor Diego San Nino de Atocha Xotz
Curious Antiquities of British Honduras
By Subscription Lambeth • 1831
(6)
You’d think I’d be beyond it at this stage, but I felt a welling up of some sort of good feeling mixed with some sort of bad feeling. I couldn’t quite hit on their names, though. I guess the good one was like coziness or fuzzy-’n’- warmness and the bad one was… guilt? No. No way. Well, maybe. Dude. You’re slipping. Undo, undo. You did the right thing. And you knew there’d be moments like this. You need to just get through the next fifty-one days. And there’s only one way you’re going to do that: denial. Right? Right.
“Okay, anyway,” she said, when the little scene was over, “well, that gives us twenty minutes to finish that game.”
“Okay,” I said, managing to leave out the introductory “uh.”
She steered me around to where there were two quadricolored Korean cushions on either side of an old and very thick straight-grained kaya-wood Go board, the one that had been in her now-closed office downtown, and which I figured was worth north of fifty K. You could just see the sunken pyramid on its underside reflected in the dark tile floor. She took the bowls off the board, set them down, opened them, and started scooping out stones.
“You don’t like Indian food?” I asked.
“Hate. That stuff is dirty.” The way she said the word it sounded like it was in that Tales-from-the-Crypt y drip font, like
“I didn’t know that about you.”
“Well, I’m sure it’s the last thing.” She dug an old Insa analog chess clock out of somewhere, wound up both sides, and settled it next to the board.
“Oh, no, I’m sure there’s lots I don’t… you’re a woman of mystery…”
“ You’re the mystery,” she said. “You’ve got something going on.” Marena started laying out the game where we’d left it three months ago, at the seventieth move. We’d started it at the Stake, during the Madison business, and a lot had happened since then, but-as I maybe should mention for the benefit of non-Go players in the audience-there wasn’t anything outstandingly mentally acrobatic about picking it up again now. Actually, all Go players above a certain level can remember all their games and can pick up any of them at any stage. Also, as long as we’re making explanations, maybe I should say how it might seem a little odd that we’d do this now, but only to people who don’t play. No Go player wants an unresolved game hanging around in the air like a hungry ghost.
“Sorry?” I asked.
“You’re not planning some damn thing for my birthday, are you? Because I’m not putting this one on my resume.” She snuck her right middle finger into the side of her mouth and, discreetly, bit on it.
“Oh, uh, sorry, no.” Mierditas, I thought. I hate mind readers.
“So what’s up? I bet you made another huge and foolishly attention-getting investment coup.”
“No, no… it’s just you haven’t seen me for a while, that’s all-”
