think."
"What?"
"I'm not sure. It was a bad thing, but I don't remember."
"How do you know then?"
"It's been coming up lately. There's a woman who knew me back then who says that we did something, but she didn't say what."
"Did you ask her?"
"I didn't remember her," I said. "I thought that she was mistaken or just mad about me messin' around with her."
"But now you think that she knows something?" Svetlana asked.
"I don't know. But I feel different. I feel like you say, like a new man."
"But you don't like this," she suggested, and then she kissed me. "I don't know what I did."
"Come," Lana said.
She took me by the hand and led me to the bathroom.
"Stand in the tub," she told me.
I was already naked. She turned on the water and began to soap my thighs. She scrubbed and washed me from head to toe using a glass to rinse off the lather with warm water. She dried me with the plush red towels the Reynard used, and then she took me to the bed and massaged me—for hours. Whenever I tried to speak, she shushed me. Whenever I tried to turn over, she pushed me back on my stomach. Her hands were strong and seemed to get stronger as the night went on. At some point I lost consciousness. It didn't feel like falling asleep but more like tumbling down a dark, dark hole.
I awoke to the sounds of a man yelling and then something both hard and soft, something that made me sick. I sat up in bed gasping. The sounds gripped my heart and pummeled my lungs. For a while I didn't realize that it had been a dream, a sleeping vision.
Svetlana was lying next to me, naked and uncovered. I watched her for a while and calmed down. Age was creeping up on me; life was passing by as if through the window of a car in the country somewhere. All of a sudden there's a beautiful young woman lying on a bench at the side of the road. You see her and slow down. You approach her but wonder what you would do here by the roadside with a beauty who is there for you and unashamed. And then, once you decide that she has more to offer than you can take, you look back at the car and think about the monotonous road ahead of you . . .
These were my thoughts on that morning. It was all very poetic. It was also true. I could stay with Svetlana or go back to Our Bank. I could ask Cassius to ask Joey (or someone like Joey) to kill Barbara Knowland so that my life could begin again with Mona or Lana.
"How are you?" the Russian girl asked.
"Wondering."
"About what?"
"If maybe the idea of suicide is not a good one for a man like me."
Lana sat up and put her arms around me. That was what I wanted. But why hadn't I just asked her to hold me?
Dr. Shriver's office was at the very end of East Fifty-fourth Street. His second-floor window looked out on the East River, just like my window did. But his view seemed more intimate.
"Hello, Mr. Dibbuk," the rangy white man said. He was my age with graying blond hair and the perpetual hint of a smile on his lips. "How have you been?"
I took the seat across from him, the one that looked out over the river. There was a lone tugboat out there, 90 percent engine and 10 percent boat.
"All that power and nothing to do," I said.
Shriver's face framed a question that he did not utter.
All around his office were placed and hung African images: masks, paintings, photographs, and jewelry. When I had first come to his office, he tried to engage me about African culture. He knew Africa quite well, had been there a dozen times. But he soon realized that I knew nothing about that continent, that dark unconsciousness of a hundred million displaced descendants of slaves. I didn't know and I didn't want to know.
"The tugboat," I said. "It doesn't have anything to pull."
"Does that mean something to you?" Shriver asked.
I remembered then that I disliked the analyst's smirk. It always felt as if he was making fun of me.
"I ran into a woman at a party my wife took me to the other night," I said. "She remembered me from nearly twenty-five
"What?"
"I'm not sure. It was a bad thing, but I don't remember."
"How do you know then?"
"It's been coming up lately. There's a woman who knew me back then who says that we did something, but she didn't say what."
"Did you ask her?"
"I didn't remember her," I said. "I thought that she was mistaken or just mad about me messin' around with her."
"But now you think that she knows something?" Svetlana asked.
"I don't know. But I feel different. I feel like you say, like a new man."
"But you don't like this," she suggested, and then she kissed me. "I don't know what I did."
"Come," Lana said.
She took me by the hand and led me to the bathroom.
"Stand in the tub," she told me.
I was already naked. She turned on the water and began to soap my thighs. She scrubbed and washed me from head to toe using a glass to rinse off the lather with warm water. She dried me with the plush red towels the Reynard used, and then she took me to the bed and massaged me—for hours. Whenever I tried to speak, she shushed me. Whenever I tried to turn over, she pushed me back on my stomach. Her hands were strong and seemed to get stronger as the night went on. At some point I lost consciousness. It didn't feel like falling asleep but more like tumbling down a dark, dark hole.
I awoke to the sounds of a man yelling and then something both hard and soft, something that made me sick. I sat up in bed gasping. The sounds gripped my heart and pummeled my lungs. For a while I didn't realize that it had been a dream, a sleeping vision.
Svetlana was lying next to me, naked and uncovered. I watched her for a while and calmed down. Age was creeping up on me; life was passing by as if through the window of a car in the country somewhere. All of a sudden there's a beautiful young woman lying on a bench at the side of the road. You see her and slow down. You approach her but wonder what you would do here by the roadside with a beauty who is there for you and unashamed. And then, once you decide that she has more to offer than you can take, you look back at the car and think about the monotonous road ahead of you . . .
These were my thoughts on that morning. It was all very poetic. It was also true. I could stay with Svetlana or go back to Our Bank. I could ask Cassius to ask Joey (or someone like Joey) to kill Barbara Knowland so that my life could begin again with Mona or Lana.
"How are you?" the Russian girl asked.
"Wondering."
"About what?"
"If maybe the idea of suicide is not a good one for a man like me."
Lana sat up and put her arms around me. That was what I wanted. But why hadn't I just asked her to hold me?
Dr. Shriver's office was at the very end of East Fifty-fourth Street. His second-floor window looked out on the East River, just like my window did. But his view seemed more intimate.
"Hello, Mr. Dibbuk," the rangy white man said. He was my age with graying blond hair and the perpetual hint of a smile on his lips. "How have you been?"
I took the seat across from him, the one that looked out over the river. There was a lone tugboat out there, 90 percent engine and 10 percent boat.
"All that power and nothing to do," I said.
Shriver's face framed a question that he did not utter.
All around his office were placed and hung African images: masks, paintings, photographs, and jewelry. When I had first come to his office, he tried to engage me about African culture. He knew Africa quite well, had been there a dozen times. But he soon realized that I knew nothing about that continent, that dark unconsciousness of a hundred million displaced descendants of slaves. I didn't know and I didn't want to know.
"The tugboat," I said. "It doesn't have anything to pull."
"Does that mean something to you?" Shriver asked.
I remembered then that I disliked the analyst's smirk. It always felt as if he was making fun of me.
"I ran into a woman at a party my wife took me to the other night," I said. "She remembered me from nearly twenty-five
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