already assigned the dead manâs tools to another laborer, whoâs wielding them right (now), dissolving Diddyâs prints with fresh sweat and grime. Lastly, an autopsy; which might disclose that the train that may have crushed Incardonaâs torso couldnât also have broken open his skull. No time to waste. Before the priest and the stamp dealer, candy effigies, melt, vanish into oblivion; before Incardonaâs corpse is retouched by the morticianâs lying skills, stuck underground, and begins to rot.
But wait. No, no. Something wrong. The newspaper would have it that the Privateerâs run was without incident, that the train passed through the tunnel without stopping at all. Diddy knows the world is built on lies. But why would they tell such a stupid lie, one so easily exposed? The railroad must be desperate to conceal its fallibility, to deny that breakdowns and unforeseen accidents ever occur. Those buck-passing bastard bureaucrats wonât be allowed to get away with such tricks. Everyone aboard the Privateer can testify that the train stopped for about forty minutes. Even Hester remembers that.
Quick, then. To work. Either that, or donât move at all. Diddy the Dilatory doesnât rise from the deep upholstered chair in the hotel lobby. He canât help thinking, why should I? Why was Diddy bent on confessing to a crime no one suspected him of committing, the penalties for which he could, if he chose, escape entirely? The justification for that impulse, once plain to Diddy, had dissolved a mere moment ago into a murky elusive blur of inner speech, tuned down so as to be unaudible. But itâs not as if Diddy isnât permitted to think any more, once heâs reached a decision. No. Then think. Thinking some more. Maybe it wasnât judgment or punishment he desired, only clarity and certainty. These heâd yearned for with such passion, and with so little hope of attaining them, that he could easily have misread his desire as a craving for judgment and punishment.
But (now) he had them both, clarity and certainty, clenched in his fist. Like splinters of glass which, miraculously, fail to lacerate the hand. Why go any further? Did he want to die? Diddy the Done. No, he wanted to live. But was that enough of a reason to remain sitting in this chair?
And what about the lovely girl sequestered in the hospital? Hadnât Diddy set himself two projects to carry out this Monday morning? Discover if he were a murderer, and send Hester some flowers. Heâs seen through one project. Before turning himself in, heâd take care of the other. Diddy tore the story on page 16 out of the Courier-Gazette and tucked it in his wallet. Then left the hotel and strolled down the street, unexpectedly lighthearted, inhaling the damp fresh morning air, lightly pricked with sensations from the miniature rush hour getting underway, like a toy imitation of Manhattan. The buses crammed with sleepy-eyed office workers and compulsive shoppers. He crosses the street. The florist, a small brown paper bag clamped between his elbow and right side, was just pulling up the iron shutters and unlocking the door when Diddy arrived, his first customer. Diddy, pacing about the dark, humid, fragrant interior of the store. All dark places should smell like this. The man watched him patiently, permissively, while sipping coffee from a cardboard cup.
Real nice morning.
Yes, very nice.
It was a challenge to choose flowers for someone who canât see them. For whom flowers must be legible and pleasurable in all ways except the ordinary one, sight. Diddy selected lilacs for their scent. Pussy willows for their texture. Six anthurium stalks for their keenly erotic shape. âTheyâre awful expensive, I have to tell you. Get them flown in all the way from Hawaii.â Diddy said he knew and that it didnât matter.
Making out a card to accompany the flowers. âI hope to see you today.
But wait. No, no. Something wrong. The newspaper would have it that the Privateerâs run was without incident, that the train passed through the tunnel without stopping at all. Diddy knows the world is built on lies. But why would they tell such a stupid lie, one so easily exposed? The railroad must be desperate to conceal its fallibility, to deny that breakdowns and unforeseen accidents ever occur. Those buck-passing bastard bureaucrats wonât be allowed to get away with such tricks. Everyone aboard the Privateer can testify that the train stopped for about forty minutes. Even Hester remembers that.
Quick, then. To work. Either that, or donât move at all. Diddy the Dilatory doesnât rise from the deep upholstered chair in the hotel lobby. He canât help thinking, why should I? Why was Diddy bent on confessing to a crime no one suspected him of committing, the penalties for which he could, if he chose, escape entirely? The justification for that impulse, once plain to Diddy, had dissolved a mere moment ago into a murky elusive blur of inner speech, tuned down so as to be unaudible. But itâs not as if Diddy isnât permitted to think any more, once heâs reached a decision. No. Then think. Thinking some more. Maybe it wasnât judgment or punishment he desired, only clarity and certainty. These heâd yearned for with such passion, and with so little hope of attaining them, that he could easily have misread his desire as a craving for judgment and punishment.
But (now) he had them both, clarity and certainty, clenched in his fist. Like splinters of glass which, miraculously, fail to lacerate the hand. Why go any further? Did he want to die? Diddy the Done. No, he wanted to live. But was that enough of a reason to remain sitting in this chair?
And what about the lovely girl sequestered in the hospital? Hadnât Diddy set himself two projects to carry out this Monday morning? Discover if he were a murderer, and send Hester some flowers. Heâs seen through one project. Before turning himself in, heâd take care of the other. Diddy tore the story on page 16 out of the Courier-Gazette and tucked it in his wallet. Then left the hotel and strolled down the street, unexpectedly lighthearted, inhaling the damp fresh morning air, lightly pricked with sensations from the miniature rush hour getting underway, like a toy imitation of Manhattan. The buses crammed with sleepy-eyed office workers and compulsive shoppers. He crosses the street. The florist, a small brown paper bag clamped between his elbow and right side, was just pulling up the iron shutters and unlocking the door when Diddy arrived, his first customer. Diddy, pacing about the dark, humid, fragrant interior of the store. All dark places should smell like this. The man watched him patiently, permissively, while sipping coffee from a cardboard cup.
Real nice morning.
Yes, very nice.
It was a challenge to choose flowers for someone who canât see them. For whom flowers must be legible and pleasurable in all ways except the ordinary one, sight. Diddy selected lilacs for their scent. Pussy willows for their texture. Six anthurium stalks for their keenly erotic shape. âTheyâre awful expensive, I have to tell you. Get them flown in all the way from Hawaii.â Diddy said he knew and that it didnât matter.
Making out a card to accompany the flowers. âI hope to see you today.
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