Fantasy: The Best of 2001 Read online

  On regaining consciousness Chemayev realized he was back in the garden. Considering the cau­tionary flavor of his previous experience and the circular pattern governing the evening, he had little doubt that March would soon put in an appearance, but nevertheless he found the bitter smell of Yuri’s vegeta­tion and the sound of water spurting from the broken fountain and the silver bar of light floating overhead solid and comforting by contrast to the emptiness through which he had passed. Surprised to find that he was still holding the nine-millimeter pistol, he tucked it into his waist and headed for the fountain, pushing aside black branches clustered with white leaves bearing scat­ters of inky characters—he wondered now if these might not be fragments of the formula that had made Yuri’s transformation possible.

  Once he reached the edge of the cobblestone circle he stationed himself behind some bushes, a position from which he had a clear view of the fountain. The abstracted calm that had eased his passage from the cor­ridor to the garden remained strong in him, and waiting went easily at first. With its black serene sky, the silver bar in place of a sun, the ruined fountain and eccentric forest, the place had a Mexican Twilight Zone ambi­ence—like an old B-movie set awaiting its Dramatis Per­sonae—that appealed to him. But as the minutes wore on his anxiety resurfaced. He chastised himself for not having given Yuri the money. The moment had been brief, the circumstances problematic. But everything he’d worked for had been on the line. He should have been up to it. Of course paying the money might have been a fruitless gesture. God only knew what was going on. It was apparent that he was being manipulated. Equally apparent that Polutin had a hand in things—hadn’t he implied that he’d done business with Yuri? Perhaps he’d managed to sour the deal Chemayev had negotiated. One way or another, he’d just have to find another way to get the money to Yuri.

  He became so enmeshed in worry he nearly failed to notice March on the opposite side of the circle, half-hidden in the bushes. Not shirtless as before. Wearing his leather trenchcoat. Chemayev aimed his pistol at him, but let the barrel drop. Killing him seemed the saf­est course, but he had no clue what the repercussions might be. It might be wise to feel things out. Risky, perhaps. But the pistol boosted his confidence. He tucked it back into the waist of his trousers, concealing it beneath his jacket, and stepped out onto the cobblestones.

  “March!” he called.

  March’s head snapped toward him. “Viktor! Christ, what’re you doing here?”

  “What am I doing here? Just taking a stroll. What are you doing here?” As he spoke Chemayev recognized that their dialogue was roughly the mirror image of what they had said to one another on his previous adventure in the garden. He didn’t know whether to take this for a good or a bad omen.

  “I’m not sure how to answer that.” March edged forward. “Frankly, I’ve been having myself one hell of a time. A fucking asylum would feel like a rest home after this place.”

  It hadn’t occurred to Chemayev that anyone else might have been having experiences similar to his own; but judging by March’s behavior he thought now this might be the case. The Irishman kept casting furtive looks to the side, as if expecting some menace to emerge from the bushes.

  “This Yuri character . . .” March’s right hand fluttered up; he rubbed the back of his head fitfully. “Did you keep your appointment with him?”

  “Not yet,” said Chemayev.

  “If I were you I might give it a pass.”

  “You’ve seen him, then?”

  March shook his head in the affirmative, then said, “I don’t know. Maybe.” He moved another step toward Chemayev. “I was talking to this old geezer. The guy looked like he’d spent the night in the boneyard kissing corpses. Filthy bugger! About seventy years old going on terminal. He claimed to be Yuri.”

  “You talked with him?”

  “Naw, we stared into one another’s eyes! Of course we talked.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  An angry tightness in his voice, March said, “Oh, this and that. The rugby final, the roots of British oppression. Chatty bits.” He had another quick glance behind him. “Do you know of a way out of here?”

  March’s agitation lifted Chemayev’s spirits. “How about the way you came in?”

  “Are you fucking with me, Viktor?” March walked purposefully toward him, stopping close to the fountain, about twenty feet away. “I need an ally. If you’re not an ally, I may have to take a bite out of you.” He had regained some of his self-assurance, as if the show of menace had been restorative. “I’ve had a number of un­settling experiences. A premonition of violence as well. Perhaps it’s all in my head. I’m not a’tall sure someone didn’t put something in my drink. But no matter that, I’m sensing a hostile vibe between us. Why would that be?”

  Chemayev considered showing March the pistol, but decided against it. Confrontation had not served him well the last time. “Work it out for yourself. I’ve got my own problems.” He started to walk away, but March said, “Hang on, Viktor.” He was holding a chrome-plated au­tomatic with a taped grip.

  Chemayev gawked at it. “Where did you get the gun?”

  “Picked it up during my travels. I was feeling a touch inadequate after checking my own weapon. But now”—he hefted the gun, as if appreciating its weight—“now I’m feeling twice the man I ever was.”

  He urged Chemayev toward the fountain, had him sit on carved fragments at its base. Chemayev arranged himself carefully, adjusting his left hip so the pistol came loose in his waistband. In his thoughts he remarked again on the role reversal taking place. During their previous encounter he had been the anxious one, the one to ask about Yuri, the one to decide for con­frontation. Perhaps all this pointed to a happier conclu­sion. But did March suspect what he suspected? He’d mentioned a premonition of violence. Chemayev was forced to assume that this premonition had involved the two of them.

  “Do you fancy Irish music, Viktor?” March asked out of the blue, he sat down cross-legged about fifteen feet away. “Bands, you know. Rock ’n’roll.”

  “U-2,” said Chemayev absently. “I like U-2.”

  “Jesus! U-2!” March launched into a simpering parody of “In The Name of Love,” and then made a flatulent sound with his lips. “Bono Vox, my ass! That ball-less little prat! I’m talking about real Irish music. Like Van Morrison. Van the Man! Not some gobshite got up in a gold jockstrap.”

  “He’s okay,” Chemayev said.

  “What the fuck do you mean, ‘okay’? That’s soul music, man! Ahh!” He made a dismissive gesture with the automatic. “That’s what I get for trying to talk rock ’n’roll with a Russian. Your idea of music is some fat asshole playing folk songs on the lute.”

  Chemayev leaned back against the base of the foun­tain. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the arc of water spurting from the broken pipe; overhead, a great crossbeam broadcast a benign silvery radiance. Black trees with leafy prayer flags stretched toward the light, and the round gray stones beneath him seemed to be eddying in their concentric circles. He allowed the fingers of his right hand to brush the pistol grip beneath his jacket. His chances were fifty-fifty, he figured. About the same as ever.

  “You look almost happy,” March said. “Did you have the good thought?”

  “Happy’s not the word for it,” said Chemayev.

  “What am I missing, Viktor? You seem so at ease. It’s not like you. Do you know something I should know, or is it the drugs have just kicked in?”

  “I don’t know shit,” said Chemayev. “I’ve been having a bad night, too. Someone’s been playing games with me.”

  “Games,” said March. “Yeah, that’s my feeling.” He cracked the knuckles of his free hand by making a fist. “Do you recall me mentioning the dealings I had with your Mister Polutin over in London? A terrible business. Couple of his boys got taken out. Well, not long after I was passing the evening with this Rastafarian bunch in a squat in Chelsea. I won’t go into the whys and wherefores—suf
fice it to say, it was part of a complex proceeding. At any rate, I was feeling comfortable with things when I made the mistake of smoking a joint one of those savages handed me. I’m not sure what was in it, but from the extreme paranoia that resulted, I’m guessing it was angel dust. The idea was, I gather, to fuck me up sufficient so the Rastas could carve me. I had the suspicion it was Polutin’s idea . . . though con­sidering the relationship we’ve had since, I may be mis­taken. But the drug, whatever it was, didn’t have the desired effect.” The barrel of the automatic drooped toward his knee. “Not that I wasn’t sick as a fish. Fucking hell! I was feverish. My thoughts buzzing like flies. Patches of color swimming around me. My bones ached. I thought my heart was going to burst out its bottom like a soggy sack full of red milk. But the paranoia . . . it organized me somehow. I became a calm at the center of the storm of my symptoms. I could see everything in the room with wonderful clarity.

  “There was eight of ’em. All licorice-skinned and snake-headed. Eyes agleam. Lounging in the doorways, sitting on sprung sofas. Trying to orchestrate my para­noia with their whispered talk. Streetlight washed through the busted-out windows, painting a shine on their faces and exposing the shit spray-painted on the walls. Designs, mostly. A variety of strange devices that had to do with that mongrel religion of theirs, but which spoke to me in a way unintended by the artist. I could read the future in those mazes of squiggly lines.”

  A slackness came into March’s face, as if he’d been brought hard against the memory of a transcendent mo­ment. Chemayev inched his hand beneath the flap of his jacket, touched the pistol grip with his fingertips.

  “Have you ever been close to death, Viktor?” asked March. “I don’t mean nearly dead. I’m talking about the way you’re close to a woman when you’re lying with her in the act of love and there’s not an inch of air between you that isn’t humming with sweet vibration. That’s how it was that night. I was in death’s arms, fuck­ing her slow and easy, and she was fusing her power with mine. I could actually see the bitch. She had a sleek silver face with a catlike Asian cast. The mask of a de­moness. The silver moved as supplely as flesh to make her wicked smiles. Her hair was white, long and fine, and her breasts were corpse-pale, the nipples purplish. Like poison berries. When she opened her mouth I saw a silver word embossed on her black tongue. A character in the language I spoke before I was born, telling me it was time to act. That if I took action at that precise second, I’d come through the ordeal.”

  In his distraction March’s pale face had an aspect of long-preserved youth, like that of a revivified mummy; the licks of black hair falling over his brow looked like absences in his flesh.

  “When I drew my gun,” he went on, “I was inside death. Hot and slick with her. Her legs locked about my waist, fingernails stabbing my back. Both of us scream­ing with release. I had six bullets, and every one went true. Six head shots. Their dreadlocks hissed and snapped, their eyes rolled up like horses’ eyes. One of the survivors came at me with a machete, and I killed him with my hands. The last one fled.” He ran the barrel of the automatic idly along his thigh. “That was strange enough, but what happened next was stranger yet. I was standing there, reviewing my work. Stoned as a fucking goose, I was. Reading the bloody sentences newly written on the walls. Obituaries of the recently deceased. Tributes to my marksmanship. When I turned my head, following the red script of those shattered lives, I found death was still with me. I’d assumed she was an ordinary hallucination, that she’d served her purpose and moved on. But there she stood, posed like Hell’s calendar girl with hands on hips and one leg cocked, smiling at me. I’d only seen her close up before. Only been witness to half her beauty. The silvery stuff of her face flowed in sinuous curves to embellish her arms and legs. Silver flourishes coiled down her hips and framed her secret hair, which was trimmed to the shape of seven snakes standing on their tails. She beckoned to me, and I couldn’t resist. I lay with her once again.”

  Chemayev had succeeded in securing a firm grasp on the pistol; but recalling March’s quickness, he didn’t trust the steadiness of his hand.

  “It was a fool’s act,” March said, “to be coupling with what half my mind believed to be a product of madness. Especially with the dead lying around us, souls still tan­gled in their flesh. But I was in thrall. Her musk coated my tongue, her sweat formed a silvery sheen on my skin. My eyes went black with staring through the slits of her eyes into the thoughtless place beyond. She whispered to me. Not words of love, but a sibilant breath that en­tered through my ear and slithered into all my hollows, making an icy shape inside me. She stayed with me until the sky paled and flies began to gather like early fish­ermen at the edges of the spills of blood. But she never truly left me. I’ve seen her time and again since that night. Whenever trouble’s near she comes to guide my arm.” He gave Chemayev a sideways look. “I’ve seen her tonight.”

  “Maybe you’re mistaken. It could have been one of Yuri’s girls. They like to dress up.” Chemayev thought if it weren’t for the plash of water behind him, he would be able to hear the beating of his heart.

  “I’ve seen her tonight,” March repeated. “But I’m not so sure she’s with me this time.” He paused. “What do you think of my story, Viktor?”

  “You mean apart from the obvious pathology?”

  “Always ready to spit in the devil’s eye.” March low­ered his head and chuckled. “You remind me of myself as a lad.”

  Chemayev’s hand tightened on the pistol, but he failed to seize the opportunity.

  “You probably think I’m having you on,” said March, and was about to say more, when Chemayev, his pa­tience for this game exhausted, broke in: “I don’t know what you’ve got in mind, but I doubt you understand the implications of your story.”

  “And I suppose you’re bursting to enlighten me?”

  “Sure. Why not?” said Chemayev. “The idea that a man who’s accustomed to violence, who thrives on it, has come to rely on a fictive alliance with death . . . with a comic book image of death . . .”

  “All alliances are fictive,” said March. “Haven’t you figured that one out?”

  Chemayev ignored the interruption. “The fact you’ve created an imaginary playmate to help enable your vi­olence—even if just in a story—that implies slippage. Weakness.”

  March’s face emptied. “Weakness is it?”

  “What else? Maybe it’s a touch of guilt. Some old flutter of religion. Something that demands you create a quasi-mystical justification for actions you previously considered utilitarian.”

  “Quasi-mystical.” March blew air through his lips like a horse. “That cuts deep, Viktor, It’s a brand I’m not sure I can bear. Especially coming from a featherless little chirper like yourself.”

  It seemed to Chemayev that March was fast ap­proaching a moment of decision, a moment when he’d be preoccupied, all his attention focused on the possible consequences arising from the exercise of his anger, and as a result, for a fraction of a second he’d be slow to react.

  “It may be a product of age,” Chemayev said. “Your increasing awareness of mortality.”

  “Let it rest,” said March. “Seriously.”

  “The brain could be in the early stages of decom­position. Logic decaying into fantasy, gasses collecting in the skull.”

  “Do you hear what I’m telling you, boy?”

  “It must look like a fucking swamp in there.” Che­mayev tapped the side of his head. “Methane seeping from rotten stumps, gray scraps of tissue hanging down like moss. The brain a huge pale cheese wreathed in mist, rising from the black water. The creatures of your imagination peeping from its fissures. Most of them bullshit versions of yourself.”

  “You bloody little piss merchant! Shut the fuck up!”

  “Bruce Lee March, Dylan Thomas March, Charlie Manson March. Niall the Catholic Fishboy, old Father McConnell’s favorite sweet. And let’s not forget your masterpiece: Death. Based, I imagine, on some pimply litt
le squinch who wouldn’t let you have a bite of her muffin back in trade school. When the mists get really thick, they all pick up banjos and sing ‘Toora Loora Loora.’ ”

  “That’s enough!” said March.

  “You know, there’s every chance you’ve developed a tumor. Brain cancer’s known to cause delusions. Or maybe it’s early Alzheimer’s. You might want to get yourself checked out.”

  March’s nearly colorless eyes appeared to lighten further, as if the black shadow of his soul had shrunk to a more compact shape, pulling back from his skin, and Chemayev, feeling certain the moment had arrived, slid the pistol from beneath his jacket and shot him twice in the chest.

  The bullets twisted March, flipped him fishlike onto his side; the detonations blended with and seemed to enlarge his outcry. His feet kicked in sequence as if he were trying to walk away from the pain. He was still clutching the automatic; he fumbled with the trigger guard, the barrel wobbled down, the muzzle lodging between two cobblestones. He strained to lift it, his eyebrows arching with effort. The heightened pallor of his skin and the bright blood filming his lips gave him the look of an actor in a Kabuki drama. Chemayev finished him with a bullet to the temple.