I had undone them.
We had.
You’re welcome, I said.
Thank you, he said.
Suddenly, I was real. Real to him. There might, after all, he thought, be guides, guardian angels, spooks, phantoms, who, late in the game, showed up to help a guy along.
Tell Viv less drugs, he said.
I can’t, I said. You’ll have to tell her yourself.
And he tried, but nothing came out.
Maybe lift your arm, I said. Knock over the water glass on the side table.
He tried but nothing doing.
From up on the roof came a feeble Gallic cry.
Will you excuse me? I said.
—
I shot up through the ceiling and found the Frenchman on the roof, greatly weakened, tucked in against the chimney.
My goodness, I said. Is this as far as you got?
I am trying so hard, he said.
I know you are, I said.
You might be more helpful, he said.
I don’t understand what it is you’re trying to do, I said.
Perhaps you have gone swimming in a lake, he said.
Yes, I said. And recalled, involuntarily, “Dodd’s Lake,” Lloyd’s big warm legs closed tight around mine, our “boilermakers” on “duck-shaped floatie” between us.
Pleasant,oui? he said.
While, back “at camp,” above “pup-tent entry,” swirls “cut-apart-milk-carton lantern.”
As two “cans of beans” cook over “open fire.”
“Heinz” brand.
“Heinz” brand camping beans.
You’d put “marshmallow” on “stick.”
Hold “stick” over “fire.”
Yes, I said. Very pleasant.
Out there, in the sun, he said. All around you, trees. Beneath you, fish. Now: make that lake tiny. Place it in an oven. Heat it. Only a few degrees. The trees, the little trees, go brown. The fish? Things rupture within. And our tiny lake is ruined: white bellies, big stink. I have seen this. In Uzbekistan.
