Читать книгу The Lost Civilization of Suolucidir - Susan Daitch - Страница 18

Pin Trays (first half of the nineteenth century), although they are authentically of the seventeenth century; nonetheless, this description leads one to believe they were in fact used as pin trays in the period indicated by the antiquaries of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.

Apollinaire’s version of Cinderella,

cataloging the fate of her renamed squirrel-fur slippers

“MY TELEVISION ISN’T WORKING, AND I need to watch the Iran Contra hearings.” Alyssa, who lived downstairs, was at my door holding her cat, Catullus. This seemed out of character for an astrologist; perhaps it was just an excuse. Alyssa was wearing a striped man’s shirt over black tights, not something she would wear on the street, I’m guessing, possibly something one would sleep in, so it did occur to me that watching the hearings wasn’t the only reason she’d knocked on my door.

“Sure, Alyssa. I was just about to turn them on.” This wasn’t exactly true, but my apartment was small, and if one person was watching television, everyone else present was as well. I flipped on the set, fiddled with the channel until Oliver North’s gap-toothed hound dog expression filled the screen. His voice trembled, he pointed to the ceiling and talked about his willingness to meet Abu Nidal anywhere at any time.

Alyssa flopped into a chair and put her feet up on the table, littered with my artifacts constructed from found junk. I looked at her feet, but she was oblivious. Among the pieces of tile, bottle caps and the hot-glue gun was a letter from the Red Cross office in Zurich that still handled queries about possible World War II refugees. She picked it up and looked at the envelope.

“A registered letter? Ariel? Do you owe someone a lot of money?” She flicked the envelope making a snapping noise as fingers hit the return address. “Are you studying to be a doctor? We’ll be sorry to see you leave, but Zurich is a cool place. You can hang out at the Dada café, Apollinaire’s, around the corner from where Lenin plotted the revolution.”

“It’s Café Voltaire, not Apollinaire.” Who was the royal we who was going to miss me when I left to work for the Red Cross in Switzerland? Alyssa and the spirits?

The letter confirmed that a Bruno and Sidonie Nieumacher had been students in Berlin, moved to Marseilles, and a year later were listed as passengers on Le Faroan. The dates of the International Red Cross records and the dates in the Nieumacher documents coincided.

“If you can predict the future, why do you need to watch? I mean don’t you already know the outcome?”

“That’s not what I do. I just write an astrology column.”

“But it’s related.”

“Not really. I’ve told you before, my horoscope predictions are all pretty much made up, and listen Ariel, that’s just between you and me. Give it a rest, hey, I want to listen to this.” But she got up from the chair, walked into my kitchen, looked through my fridge, found some orange juice and vodka, and made herself a drink.

“Make yourself at home,” I said.

“Well, I wasn’t sure you would offer. I’ll make you one, too. Actually, you may find this hard to believe, but I’ve found watching the hearings helps me with my work. My column’s not all love and romance and money, money, money, money.” She sang the last words to the tune of the O’Jays song. “You’ve seen Fawn Hall,” she said. “If I looked like Mrs. Oliver North, and my husband had a secretary who looked like that, fuck Iran, I’d be worried about something else.”

The astrologist walked back, paused to swallow, then handed me my drink.

“So I write: Taurus, watch out for a threat to you that is present in a loved one’s life. Perhaps you never thought about this person. He or she could be someone you overlooked or took for granted, but they might very well spell trouble.”

So that was how it was done. I was impressed.

“Did you watch any of North’s testimony?” she asked.

I nodded. I had seen Oliver North testify that he met Iranian arms merchant Manuchar Ghorbanifar in a men’s room, and it was here, leaning against a wall graffitied with initials, penises and jokes about bodily fluids, that Ghorbanifar had given him the idea to divert profits from Iranian arms deals to the Contras.

“A men’s room. I ask you,” Alyssa commented, though she didn’t say what exactly she was asking. “Reagan uses an astrologer to make decisions. I’d bet my life on it.” She didn’t have a very high opinion of her colleagues. I began to realize this was just a day job for Alyssa, though I never found out what she did when she wasn’t writing her column.

“Sometimes you have to go above written law,” Fawn Hall squeaked into her microphone. “You have to heed a higher law.”

“What fucking higher law?” Alyssa shouted at the screen. She sounded like my grandfather, a cranky alte kahker, yelling at the radio during the McCarthy hearings, the Rosenberg trial, when election returns were announced. “Dumb shite. Look at that hair! She looks like she’s got a Pekingese puppy sitting on her head.”

Hall had shredded a stack of documents relating to the illegal war against Nicaragua, a war effort funded by the sale of arms to Iran. The known dimensions of the stack measured a foot and a half high, but it was probably bigger, and included memos, codes, telephone logs, notes of all kinds. This speaks of spectacular patience and stamina in the face of a boring, time-consuming, repetitive task. Fawn Hall, patriot and former Playboy Bunny, had the strength of her convictions. Sometimes pouty and biting her lip, yet Hall voiced no doubts that she had done the right thing. Confident of the body she inhabited underneath the loose shirt and tight skirt, she invited anyone who watched her to imagine her standing over the shredder, long fingers slipping one document after another into the moving blades, long strips of confetti coming out the other end.

“These are like the people who advertise on late night TV or in the margins of magazines, promising miraculous vegetable peelers, extra sharp knives and certified gold dust for sale.” Alyssa insisted on the banality of the players on the screen that night, they were too fundamentally bland to be perverse, too empty to house dark secrets, no gargoylish imps scampering around in their brains. “Believe me, I’m an astrologist,” she said, “though not a committed one,” and I laughed with her, though I wasn’t convinced the parade of the indicted and subpoenaed were just any old anybodies for whom the sale of missiles (huge profits skimmed off the top) to Iran was just a day at the office.

We argued back and forth for a while. The masterminds were very ordinary people who wiped inky fingers from reading newsprint off on their pants and then took out the trash, or, no, they were devils of ingenuity and originality, architects of secret second governments, coups, the man or men behind the curtain. Alyssa made herself another drink, then fell asleep on the couch. I touched her shoulder, close enough to smell her orangey breath, but she didn’t move. The big shirt wasn’t big enough to cover her butt when she snoozed on her side. It hiked up to reveal a band of sunburnt skin. When she woke Alyssa would be embarrassed to find she had conked out on my couch. My neighbor liked to present herself as the kind of person who could eat nails for breakfast, but I turned off the television and let her sleep. Her olive feathered hair was brown at the roots, and her ink-stained hands were partially hidden under her head. Catullus was nowhere to be found.

Alyssa stopped me in the hall. She had signed for a flat package, a ten-by-fourteen-inch envelope, but she admitted she’d been sitting on it for awhile.

“How long have you had this?”

“A couple of weeks. I hadn’t seen you, so I held onto it. I could have shoved it under your door, but the envelope is thick, as you can see, and might have torn if I really pushed it, and you never know. What if you got broken into again?”

“What if you knock into one of your candles, a rug catches fire, and you burn the place down?”

Alyssa ignored me. She worked from home, everyone in the building knew this, so it was assumed she would sign for deliveries. I wonder how much mail traffic found a home in her column. Virgo: You will get something important in the post, possibly bad news. Ignore it. She followed me up the stairs chattering about the Chernobyl disaster. In her column she had written: Capricorns: Beware of explosive and poisonous workplace situations. This could be time to consider a new form of employment. It looked like she was going to follow me inside.

“So who’s writing to you from Iran? Are you an arms smuggler? There’s no return address, but I looked at the stamps.”

“Yes, bombs are mailed to me in packages just like this one.”

“It’s too small.”

“These are only bomb-making instructions. I run a Do It Yourself operation. The bigger operators have warehouses out in Queens and live on Park Avenue. I’ll tell you about it later.”

“When later?”

“Maybe tonight. Thanks for signing for the package.” She lingered in the doorway as if she expected me to invite her in, so I would open the package in her presence. I didn’t want to be rude to Alyssa, but was compelled to practically shut the door in her face.

“I’ll bring the vodka this time,” I heard her say in a singsong voice from the stairs. I opened the package. Inside was a long letter in Farsi.