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.
What’s that smell? Turk said when they opened the service door.
A fire. A cooking fire, Hiwatt said, testing the air. That is undoubtedly burning fish.
All right, tallyho! Turk said, giving the tree a shove out the door.
They managed to get about seven linear feet of the tree into the trash chute before it jammed. Hiwatt climbed onto the trunk and, bracing his hands on the ceiling, jumped up and down in an attempt to break it, but succeeded only in stabbing himself in the legs with the branches and sending a shower of needles to the floor. He executed a precarious dismount and stood squinting at the tree as though it had deliberately defied him.
Stop smelling your hands, Turk said, and get in here. With her bare foot she swept at the detritus on her doorstep while Hiwatt tiptoed past her.
We can’t leave it like this, she said.
Oh, absolutely not, Hiwatt called from the sofa, where he was lighting up another joint. Turk backed into the apartment and joined him. Before long, she had embarked on an inventory of the bones of her hand while Hiwatt was sketching
