Zero History Page 16

  Worrying about Garreth’s safety, she’d wisely told herself when they’d started, was something best not begun, lest it never end. Doing very dangerous things was his avocation. Where he lacked the bits and pieces of income afforded a retired musician, once somewhat popular, he had the old man, looking not unlike the later portraits of Samuel Beckett, eyes of a similarly startling ferocity, possibly mad. The old man, who had supposedly once been something, never specified, in the American intelligence community, was Garreth’s producer-director, in an ongoing sequence of covert performance-art pieces. Financed, she’d been allowed to dimly gather, by other retired members of that community. Some rogue geezerhood, evidently brought into focus by a shared distaste for certain policies and proclivities of the government. She’d never seen him again, after Vancouver, but he’d remained a background presence throughout her time with Garreth, like a radio playing quietly in a nearby room. The most frequent voice on any one of Garreth’s short-lived phones.

  The old man would not, Hollis imagined, have approved of their involvement, but the multiskilled Garreth would have been impossible to replace. A man whose idea of fun was to fling himself off skyscrapers in a nylon suit with airfoil membranes sewn between the legs, and arms-to-thighs; a human flying squirrel, amid lethally unforgiving uprights of glass and steel. None of that had been Hollis at all, as Heidi had pointed out at the time. Not her taste, ever. Athletes, soldiers, never. She’d favored artboys, of any stripe, and unfortunately the dodgy hybrids as well, artboy-businessmen, with personalities as demanding as ambitiously crossbred dogs. That was what she’d known, before, and in various generally unhappy ways had understood. Not base-jumping madmen from Bristol, who wore turtlenecks without having to first consider the implications, and quoted the less popular poems of Dylan Thomas in their entirety. Because, he’d said, he couldn’t sing. All while scrawling graffiti on the secret machineries of history. Garreth. Whom, she now obliquely accepted, in the descending bronze elevator-booth, she did truly love. Repacking this swiftly, however, before the jolt announced the Odéon’s lobby.

  She was wearing the Hounds, open, over her dress, hoping that its darkness might allow it to pass for a sort of bolero. How many seasons until this kind of mismatching would read, on her, as bag lady, she wondered. That worry would be Bigend’s, she guessed, and his talk of aging bohemians.

  Nodding to the man at the desk, who was reading a novel, she popped the jacket’s collar, producing a faint jungle whiff of indigo, which she left to hover in the hotel’s lobby.

  Outside, the air had been scrubbed by rain, pavements glittering. Ten to eight, by her iPhone. She could, as either George or Meredith had said, see Les Éditeurs across the way, not this street but the next one over, angled. She walked right, past the fancy little drugstore, then right again, not wanting to be early. This much narrower street, angling sharply back, behind the hotel, was home to an English-language secondhand bookshop, a cocktail bar, a serious-looking sushi restaurant, a bookbinder, and a place that seemed to specialize in Chinese reflexology equipment: sadistic-looking massage devices, instruction manuals, models of bodies and body parts marked with meridians and pressure points. Here, for instance, was a very large china ear, apparently identical to the one in Heidi’s room at Cabinet. She’d known she’d seen one before.

  She turned, walked back to the bookbinder’s smaller window. Wondered about its clientele. Who paid whatever this cost, to have old books rebound, to this high a standard of workmanship, exquisite cobbling for ancient thoughts? Bigend might, she supposed, though any bibliophile tendencies of his were well concealed. She’d yet to see a book in any Bigendian environment. He was a creature of screens, of bare expanses of desk or table, empty shelves. He owned, as far as she knew, no art. In some way, she suspected, he regarded it as competition, noise to his signal.

  One of the books in the window was shaped like a fan, or like a wedge of gilt-embossed ivory calfskin pie, the apex bitten neatly, concavely off.

  The street was completely deserted. She said a silent prayer for Garreth. To what, she didn’t know. Unreliable universe. Or those machineries upon which he painted. Please.

  The book-fan regarded her smugly, immaculate, its contents unread perhaps for centuries.

  She turned and walked toward Odéon. Crossed it, continuing on toward the restaurant.

  Outside of which, some residual celebrity-sense now told her, were paparazzi. She blinked, kept walking. Yes, there were. She knew the body language, that nervy-but-negligent pretending-not-to-care. A sort of rage, born of boredom, waiting. Untouched drinks on the red tablecloths, whatever was cheapest. Phones to ears. A few with sunglasses. They watched her approach.

  Instinctively, she waited for the first one to raise a camera. For the sound of machine-driven image-collection. Tightening the muscles in her pelvic floor. Prepared either to flee or look her best.

  Yet no one shot her. Though they watched as she came on. She was not the target. Had not been, for years. But temporarily a person of interest now, by virtue of turning up here. Why?

  Inside, Les Éditeurs was Deco, but not the chrome and faux-onyx kind. Red leather, the color of Fifties fingernails, midbrown varnished wood, books-by-the-yard, framed black-and-white portraits of French faces she didn’t recognize.

  “He didn’t need to send you,” said Rausch, her onetime editor on Bigend’s nonexistent Node, the phantom digest of digital culture. “It’s all going very smoothly.”

  He was glaring at her over the tops of heavy black frames, glasses that looked as though they had been cranked almost shut around whatever would be left of his field of vision. His black hair looked as though his skull had been flocked.

  “No one sent me. What are you doing here?”

  “If he didn’t send you, why are you here?”

  “I’m meeting someone for dinner. In Paris on Hubertus’s business, but nothing to do with you. Your turn.”

  Rausch palmed his forehead, ran fingers exasperatedly back through locks he didn’t have. “Fridrika. The Dottirs. They’re launching the new album this week. She’s here with Bram.” He winced, reflexively.

  “Who’s Bram?”

  “Bram, from the Stokers. It’s that vampire thing.” He actually looked embarrassed. “Eydis is supposed to have been hot for him, now he’s with Fridrika. In the States, People’s taking Fridrika’s side, Us is Eydis. Over here, we don’t have that clean a break yet, but we should by tomorrow.”

  “Isn’t that tactic kind of ancient?”

  Rausch twitched. “Bigend says that’s the point. He says it’s a double-reverse, so corny it’s new. Well, not new, but comforting. Familiar.”

  “Is that why he’s always with them? They’re Blue Ant clients?”

  “He’s tight with their father,” Rausch said, lowering his voice, “all I know.”

  “Who’s their father?” It seemed odd to her that the twins had a father. She’d thought of them as having been decanted from something.

  “Big deal in Iceland. Seriously, Hollis, he really didn’t send you?”

  “Who decided they’d come here?” She’d spotted one twin’s silver hair across Les Éditeurs, but she’d already forgotten which one Rausch had said was here. Seated at a table with a tall broad-shouldered young man, very pale, one eye concealed by a heavy, dusty-looking flop of black hair.

  “I did. It’s not too hip. Looks like they chose it at random. Won’t detract from the narrative.”

  “Then unless one of the people I’m having dinner with is a Bigend plant, it’s a coincidence.”

  Rausch glowered at her, which actually meant, she knew, that he was frightened. “Really?”

  “Really.” Maître d’ hovering now, impatient. “Overton,” Hollis said to him, “table for four.” When she turned back to Rausch, he was gone. She followed the man through the crowded restaurant, to where George and Meredith were seated.

  George half rose, doing the air-kiss thing. He was wearing a dark suit, no tie, wh
ite shirt. A small triangle of ultradense chest hair, at the open collar, made it look as though he were wearing a black T-shirt. She thought his stubble had lengthened, since she’d last seen him. He smiled ruefully, white teeth seemingly the size and thickness of dominoes. “Sorry about this. I had no idea. I actually chose the place so we could talk, and not be distracted by the food.” He sat back down as the maître d’ held her chair for her.

  When he’d gone, leaving thickly bound menus, Meredith said, “We could have been across the street, at Comptoir. That would have distracted us thoroughly.”

  “Sorry,” said George. “The food here is rather good. Unfortunately, it looks like poor Bram’s the main course.”

  “You know him?”

  “To speak to. He’s talented. There but for fortune, I suppose.”

  “Studio time with Reg not looking quite so dire?”

  “Not since our conversation this afternoon, really.” Big solid teeth appearing again. She could certainly see why Meredith liked him. Indeed, she could see that Meredith very definitely did. They gave off that contact-pleasantness she expected from couples who liked one another in some genuine but nonmanic way. She wondered if she’d ever been half of one of those. “Your friend is with Fridrika Brandsdottir,” she said, the name coming back.

  “Evidently,” George agreed.

  “Not in any biblical sense, I hope,” said Meredith, peering over her open menu at the Bram/Brandsdottir table.

  “None whatever,” said George. “He’s gay.”

  “That must make it even more embarrassing,” said Hollis, opening her menu.

  “He’ll do what he has to,” said George. “He’s looking for a way out of the vampire thing. Tricky.”

  Milgrim appeared, his hair looking damp, the maître d’ fussing officiously behind him.

  “Hello, Milgrim,” Hollis said, “have a seat.”

  Assured that Milgrim was meant to be there, though clearly none too pleased to have him there, the maître d’ retreated. Milgrim unslung his shoulder bag, lowered it to the floor by its strap, beside the remaining chair, and seated himself.

  “This is my colleague, Milgrim,” Hollis said. “Milgrim, Meredith Overton and George. Like you, George has only the one name.”

  “Hello,” said Milgrim. “I saw you at the clothing show.”

  “Hello,” said George. Meredith looked at Hollis.

  “Milgrim and I,” Hollis said to Meredith, “are both interested in Gabriel Hounds.”

  “Unidentified flying objects,” Milgrim said, to George. “Do you believe in them?”

  George’s eyes narrowed beneath his unibrow. “I believe that what appear to be objects, flying, sometimes appear to be seen. And may be unknown.”

  “You haven’t seen one?” Milgrim leaned sideways and down, to scoot his bag farther under his chair. He looked up, from very close to the tablecloth, at George. “Yourself?”

  “No,” said George, with careful neutrality. “Have you?”

  Milgrim straightened up. Nodded in the affirmative.

  “Let’s order, shall we,” said Hollis, quickly, hugely grateful for the arrival of their waitress.

  32. POST-ACUTE

  The waitress was departing with orders, taking the hardbound menus with her, when a disturbance broke out at a table on the opposite side of the room.

  Raised voices. A tall, broad-shouldered, black-clad young man, pale features grimly set, suddenly standing, knocking over his chair. Milgrim watched as this one swept for the door, slamming out of Les Éditeurs. To be met by a tide of electronic flash, flinging up his arm to protect his eyes or hide his face.

  “That didn’t take long,” said George, who was buttering a round of sliced baguette. He had elegantly hairy hands, like some expensive Austrian stuffed animal. He bit off half of the buttered bread with his large white teeth.

  “All he could stand,” said Meredith, someone whose intelligence protruded through her beauty, Milgrim felt, like the outline of unforgiving machinery pressing against a taut silk scarf.

  Craning his neck, Milgrim made out one of the Dottirs, silver hair unmistakable, at the table the young man had deserted. After the liquid metal penguin, this didn’t seem so odd. He felt as though he were on some kind of roll today. She was collecting her things, he saw. She checked the dial of her enormous gold wristwatch. “Saw them,” he said, “the Dottirs. On the river. In a video.” He turned back to George. “I saw you, too.”

  “It’s about an album launch,” said George. “They have a new release. We don’t, but share a label.”

  “Who was that who left?”

  “Bram,” said Hollis, “the singer from the Stokers.”

  “Don’t know him,” said Milgrim, picking up one of the rounds of bread in order to give his hands something to do.

  “You aren’t thirteen,” said Meredith, “are you?”

  “No,” agreed Milgrim, putting the slice of bread, whole, into his mouth. Oral, his therapist called that. She’d said he was very lucky to never have taken up smoking. The bread was firm, springy. He held it there a moment before he began to chew. Meredith was staring at him. He looked back at the Brandsdottir table, where someone was holding whichever Dottir’s chair as she rose.

  That person was Rausch, he saw, and almost spat out the bread.

  Desperately, he found Hollis’s eye. She winked, the sort of effortless wink that involves no other features, a wink that Milgrim himself could never have managed, and took a sip of wine. “George is in a band, Milgrim,” she said, and he knew that she spoke to calm him. “The Bollards. Reg Inchmale, who was the guitarist in the Curfew with me, is producing their new album.”

  Milgrim, chewing and swallowing the suddenly dry bread, nodded. Took a sip of water. Coughed into his crisp cloth napkin. What was Rausch doing here? He glanced back, but didn’t see Rausch. The Dottir, reaching the door, triggered a second wave of strobing, a raggedly cumulative brilliance, the color of her hair. He looked back to Hollis. She nodded, almost invisibly.

  George and Meredith, he guessed, were unaware of her connection with Blue Ant or, for that matter, of his own. The Dottirs, he knew, were Blue Ant clients. Or, rather, their father, whom Milgrim had never seen, was some kind of major Bigend project. Possibly even partner. Some people, Rausch included, assumed Bigend’s interest in the sisters was sexual. But Milgrim, from his intermittently privileged position as Bigend’s conversational foil, guessed that not to be the case. Bigend cheerfully squired the twins through London as though they were a pair of tedious but astronomically valuable dogs, the property of someone he wished above most things to favorably impress.

  “The Stokers are on a different label,” explained George, “but one owned by the same firm. The publicists have set up a fake romance, between Bram and Fridrika, but have also floated the rumor that Bram and Eydis are involved.”

  “It’s a very old tactic,” said Meredith, “and particularly obvious with identical twins.”

  “Though new to their audience, and Bram’s,” said George, “who as you point out are thirteen years old.”

  Milgrim looked at Hollis. She looked back. Smiled. Telling Milgrim that this was not the time to ask questions. She shrugged out of her Hounds jacket, leaving it draped stiffly across the back of her chair. She was wearing a dress the color of weathered coal, a gray that was almost black. A clingy knit. He looked at Meredith’s dress for the first time. It was black, a thick shiny fabric, the detailing sewn like an antique workshirt. He didn’t understand women’s clothing, but he thought he recognized something. “Your dress,” he said to Meredith, “it’s very nice.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Is it Gabriel Hounds?”

  Meredith’s eyebrows rose, fractionally. She looked from Milgrim to Hollis, then back to Milgrim. “Yes,” she said, “it is.”

  “It’s lovely,” said Hollis. “This season’s?”

  “They don’t do seasons.”

  “But recent?” Hollis looking ver
y seriously at Meredith over the rim of her upraised wineglass.

  “Dropped last month.”

  “Melbourne?”

  “Tokyo.”

  “Another art fair?” Hollis finished the wine in her glass. George poured for her. Pointed the neck of the bottle questioningly at Milgrim, then saw Milgrim’s inverted glass.

  “A bar. Tibetan-themed micro-bistro. I never quite grasped where. Basement of an office building. Owner sleeps up above the fake rafters he put in, though that’s a secret. Hounds haven’t often done things specifically for women. A knit skirt that nobody’s ever been able to copy, though everyone tries. Your jacket’s unisex, though you’d never know it, on. Something to do with those elastic straps in the shoulders.” She looked annoyed, Milgrim thought, but very much in control.

  “Would it be out of line to ask how you knew to be there?”

  Their first courses arrived, and Meredith waited for the waitress to leave before answering. When she did, she seemed more relaxed. “I’m not directly connected,” she said to Hollis. “I’ve been out of touch with that friend I told you about, the one I knew at Cordwainers, for a few years now. But he’d introduced me to someone else. I’m not in touch with them either, and don’t know how to contact them. But they put me on a mailing list. I get an e-mail, if there’s going to be a drop. I don’t know that I get them for every drop, but there’s no way of knowing that. They aren’t frequent. Since I took Clammy to buy his jeans, in Melbourne, there’ve only been two e-mails. Prague, and Tokyo. I happened to be in Tokyo. Well, Osaka. I went along.”

  “What were they offering?”

  “Let’s eat,” said Meredith, “shall we?”

  “Of course,” said Hollis.

  Milgrim’s was salmon, and very good. The waitress had let him order from an English translation of the menu. He looked around, trying to spot Rausch again, but didn’t see him. A shift in clientele was still under way as people who’d actually only been there, he guessed, for Bram’s exit, signaled for their bills and departed, some leaving untouched food. Tables were being quickly cleared, reset, and reseated. The noise level was going up.