The Gargoyle (9 page)

There’s a gentle sigh which descends like billowing silk upon the soul that accepts its coming death. It’s a gentle pocket of air in the turbulence of everyday life. The silk of this feeling flutters—no, “flutters” is too active a word—the silk settles around you as if it has been drifting towards the earth forever and has finally found its target. The flag of defeat has been mercifully dropped and, in this action, the loss is not so bad. Defeat itself is defeated by the embrace of defeat, and death is swallowed up in victory.

The hiss of the snake fades away and death touches lovingly, possessively: it’s a master who pets the head of the dog, or a parent who consoles the crying child. The hours begin to roll and the days scarcely separate themselves from the nights. Darkness swells like a beautiful, hushed tsunami, and the body craves calming lullabies and final psalms.

I can state this with authority: nothing compares with deciding to die. I had an excellent plan and it made me smile. It made me drift more lightly on my air flotation bed.

I was an unbeloved monster. No one would mourn my loss; for all intents and purposes, I was already gone. Who would miss me—the doctors who pretended to care? Nan did her best to say all the right things and showed a hopeful face, but she was kind enough not to lie. I lied to her, though, when I pretended that I wanted to heal. I was perfecting my plan, working on it as the nurses tended to my grossness, their tender hands skittering around my body like the most graceful of insects landing upon feces.

A suicide is not something you want to screw up. Especially if, like me, you’re already facing the prospect of spending your entire life looking like last week’s dim sum. The only way to make it worse would be to wind up brain dead or quadriplegic, which can happen if you miscalculate. So, let me repeat: a suicide is not something you want to screw up.

My plan would begin immediately upon release from the hospital, because in the burn ward they watched me too carefully. At the halfway house, there would be no locks or security guards. Why would there be? Those places are designed to put people back into society, not to secure them from it.

I still had a few thousand dollars stashed away in a bank account under a false name; this would be more than enough. I’d leave the halfway house, hobble down the street, find a bank and get this money. At a clothing shop, I’d buy a hooded coat so that I could move about undetected in the land of mortals. And then a most interesting scavenger hunt would commence.

Buying a shotgun would be easy. I’d already decided to approach Tod “Trash” White, a small-time fence who would gladly sell his grandmother for a buck. Moving a shotgun at a handsome profit would put a shit-eating grin on his pockmarked face, and he’d probably even throw in a few extra cartridges for good measure.

The other items would be even easier. Razor blades are available at any convenience store. Rope is found at the corner hardware depot. Sleeping pills at the local pharmacy. Scotch at the liquor mart.

After procuring my supplies, I’d check into a hotel. Once alone in my room, I’d take a few antihistamine tablets, although not for hay fever. I’d settle in to watch a few adult movies on the hotel’s blue channel, just for old times’ sake. Who knows, I might even see myself in a farewell performance.

While watching the movies, I’d crack open the hinge of the shotgun to insert a couple of cartridges. Next I’d fashion a noose, paying particular attention to the knot. The object is not to strangle, but to break the neck: a large, strong knot facilitates a clean break. Having constructed a splendid loop, I’d turn the noose over in my hands a few times to admire my work and pull at it proudly, because you know how men love to yank their knots.

I’d wander out onto the balcony with my gun and my noose. Sunset. I’d breathe in the evening air. Throw out my arms to embrace the city. Bring my fists back in and thump my chest twice. Feeling strong and manly, I’d fasten the rope securely to the balcony railing. I’d drop the noose over the side, making sure there was ample length for a nice little fall before a sharp, satisfying jerk. Then I’d reel the rope back in, wishing that I could do the same thing to the damn bitchsnake living in my spine.

I’d spin the lid off the pill container and remove five sleeping tablets, sailing them down my throat with a glass of Scotch. This cocktail would be followed with a few more of the same. It’s always nice to enjoy a drink while watching the sun go down. While ingesting these refreshing beverages, I’d remove a razor blade from its package and cut partway through the rope. This operation would involve a certain amount of educated guesswork, to cut the rope in a way that it would not immediately break with the jerk of my fall. I wanted it to hold me, at least for a while, when I reached the end of the line.

I’d have another glass of Scotch and another five sleeping pills. Now, here’s the reason that I took the antihistamine: sleeping pills can cause vomiting when taken in excess and antihistamine counteracts that effect, making sure the sleepy stuff stays down. Pretty smart, huh? Next, I’d take the weekly supply of morphine given to combat the painsnake and inject it in a single satisfying plunge of the syringe. To complete my toxic cocktail, I’d wash down the remainder of my sleeping pills with a final shot of Scotch. By now, you can see how my plan is coming together.

I’d put the noose around my neck, working quickly because I’d be getting dizzy, Miss Frizzy. I’d take another shiny new razor blade out of its package. See how it sparkles in the light, like the wink of an imaginary God! With a single deft stroke I’d slash my right wrist, deep and clean, and then I’d slash my left wrist in the same manner. This is important: I’d cut along the length of the veins instead of across them. People who cut across the wrists either don’t really want to die, or are too stupid to pull it off.

I’d sit on the edge of the balcony. With bloody hands, I’d lift the loaded shotgun and place the muzzle into my mouth. I’d carefully angle the barrel so that the blast would travel through the roof of my mouth and into the meaty gumbo of my brain. The advantage of a shotgun, as compared to a handgun, is that your aim doesn’t really matter. The hundred pellets will immediately spread out to rip your damn head right apart. This is a beautiful thing.

My body would be positioned, back to the city, so that the blast would send me over the edge of the balcony’s railing. As my brain was shredded, I’d fall, but this fall would be brought to an abrupt halt by the noose snapping my neck. For a while, I’d just hang there, feet bobbing. Actually, perhaps I’d jerk around spasmodically; it’s hard to say. My wrists would be flowing red and my skull would be a gooey gray-matter mess, something like Picasso’s very worst painting. What was left of my brain would start to starve for oxygen. My stomach would be brimming with Scotch and sleeping pills. My veins would run the happily morphined blood right out of the gashes of my wrists. Now, if I’d cut the rope just right, it would begin to unravel. The braided strands would spin away from each other and, in a few minutes, let go entirely. My body would fall twenty floors to the sidewalk below. Beautiful. Completion. Now
that’s
a suicide, so much better than a cry for help.

Anyway, that was my plan. Never has a man looked forward to his death more than I.

L
et me begin with a description of her hair—because, really, it would be impossible to start with anything else. Her hair was like Tartarean vines that grow in the night, reaching up from a place so dark that the sun is only a rumor. It spread wildly everywhere, dark curls so cascadingly alluring that they looked as if they would swallow your hand if you were lucky enough to run your fingers through them. Her hair was so outlandish that even now, years later, I am compelled to create these ridiculous metaphors, which I know I’ll regret in the morning.

Her eyes, also, are going to force me to embarrass myself. They burned like the green hearts of jealous lovers who accuse each other at midnight. No, I’m wrong, they were not green: they were blue. Ocean waves tossed around her irises, like an unexpected storm ready to steal a sailor from his wife. No, wait…maybe her eyes
were
green: mood eyes, perhaps, like the bejeweled rings that purportedly change color according to one’s frame of mind.

She appeared in the burn ward door dressed in a light green hospital gown, with those unsolvable eyes and that riotously entangled hair, and I waited for the gasp that inevitably came whenever someone saw me for the first time. I waited for her to cover her mouth with her hand, in shock and dismay. She disappointed me by only smiling.

“You’ve been burned. Again.”

Generally I make it a rule not to respond to bizarre proclamations by strangers, but, honestly, in this case my silence was because I didn’t want her to hear my broken toilet of a voice. My throat was healing, but my ear (the one that still worked) was not yet used to the corrupted quality. I wanted her to know only the voice I had had before, the one that could talk a woman into bed.

In the face of my silence, she spoke again. “This is the third time you’ve been burned.”

I steeled my courage and corrected her. “Once.”

A look of confusion crossed her face. “Maybe you’re not you.”

She moved towards my bed, her eyes never breaking contact with mine, and drew shut the thick plastic curtains around us so that our privacy was assured. She leaned in, within inches of my face, studying me. Nobody had ever looked at me like this, not before the burn and certainly not since. Her eyes, dancing between the blue and the green, had dark bags underneath them, as though she had not slept in weeks. When her lips were almost touching mine, she whispered a word. “Engelthal.”

No doubt, reader, you have at some point in your life been face-to-face with an insane person. You can sense the madness immediately, usually even before the person says anything at all, but this nonsensical word clinched it for me. Meeting lunatics is not really that notable, as the world abounds with them; what interested me more was my reaction. Usually upon such a meeting, you only want to get away. If you’re walking on the street you avert your eyes and quicken your step, but in the burn ward the only recourse I had was to ring the nurse’s call button. But I did not do this. My only response to this possibly dangerous situation was nonresponse. So who was less rational, the wild-haired woman or me?

She took a step back. “You don’t remember.”

“No.” Whatever she thought I should be remembering, clearly I was not.

“That will make it more interesting,” she said. “Are you aware that they’re trying to poison my hearts?”

“No,” I answered again, but I was interested in where such a comment might lead. “Are they?”

“Yes. I can’t let them, because I have my penance to complete.” She looked around, as if she were worried about being overheard. “How were you burned this time?”

I could form a number of short sentences in a row, as long as I remembered to pause and breathe, so I told her a few quick details about my accident—when, where, how long ago. Then I asked her name.

“You know my name.” She kept reaching to her chest as if she were expecting to find something there, which was obviously missing. Her movements reminded me of the way I had always stroked my birth-scar.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“They took away my necklace. They said it could be used to harm someone,” she answered. “A young girl died here recently.”

I thought about Thérèse. “How did you know?”

“Oh, I know some things about the dead”—she laughed—“but I suppose we’re lucky.”

“How so?”

“We’ve outlived a seven-year-old. We’ve outlived her a hundredfold.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I have a dog named Bougatsa.” Her fingers, now hanging at her sides, were twitching. “He’ll like you.”

“I don’t like dogs.”

“You will.”

“They don’t like me.”

“Oh. Because you’re so tough and mean, right?”

Was she really mocking a burn victim?

“What does the name mean?” I asked. “Bougatsa?”

“It’s filling in Greek pastry, and my dog’s exactly that color. Maybe I could bring him for a visit.”

“Dogs aren’t allowed here.” Breath. “Even flowers can kill me.”

“Ha! Don’t try to sell me for dumb. You know you’ve worse things to fear than a dog.” She placed her hand lightly upon my chest, with gentleness. I shivered, not only at the touch but also at the gleam in her eye. “You’re sorely tempted to kill yourself and I can’t say that I blame you. But there is a time and a place for such things, and this is not it.”

Why would she say such a thing? I needed to change the subject. “You look good for seven hundred years old.”

“You don’t,” she said, looking down the length of my body. It was the first time that anyone had made a joke about my burns. “So, what do you think I should do with my hearts?”

“I think…” I paused momentarily, to make her think I was carefully considering the issue, when really I was preparing for the length of the next sentence. “I think you should give them to their rightful owners.”

Her eyes opened wide, as if I had inserted a key into a secret lock, and it made me wonder whether I had just pushed the wrong button on the insanity panel. But, just as quickly, her elated look was replaced by one of suspicion. She moved to one corner of my bed, where she intoned something in another language.
“Jube, Domine benedicere.”
Latin? A short conversation followed, with her talking into the thin air, in a language that I couldn’t understand, waiting for responses I couldn’t hear. After the first imaginary conversation was completed, she bowed deeply and walked to a second corner of the bed to repeat the performance. And then, a third corner. She concluded each conversation the same way she started it—
“Jube, Domine benedicere”
—and she returned to her original position, with the look of suspicion gone.

“My Three Masters confirmed that it really is you. It is for you that I’ve been perfecting my final heart.”