Mr. Bhuti, that is, seemed to feel that it was happening everywhere.
I found it hard to accept.
And yet, per Mr. Bhuti, it was all true. It all seemed, that is, there in his mind, quite real, and he had even begun to take itsomewhat for granted and had, as had many others, begun to make accommodation with it.
Until, that is, it had killed him.
I’m sorry to have upset you, madam, he said.
Picking up the tumbler and pitcher, he left.
Stay out, my charge said. Stay out of me.
Nevertheless I entered the orb of his thoughts.
And found that he was not shocked. At all. By any of it. He knew about it, about all of it. Knew the extent of it, was aware of many examples of it, knew he was often called out for some imagined part he’d supposedly played in it, but he—now, hang on a minute—he just had a bit of a quarrel with the damn logic. There’d always been droughts, yes? Were heat waves a new thing in the world? Some other fellow (ghost, ghoul, whatever) might just as easily have shown up here with a headful of grass-covered hillsides, serene mountain lakes, forests not on fire, unflooded towns, completely dry libraries, meadows teeming with life, thousands of non-dolphin-interrupted weddings, a field of, uh, perfectly great wheat or whatever. Yes? Tonight, here in Dallas, did things seem especially apocalyptic? Or was it just a lovely summer evening? With what sounded like a pretty good party going on next door? No great wailing and gnashing of teeth happening over there, far as he could tell, and in fact, wait, listen: What was that? Just now? They were doing the goddamn Macarena or whatever that crap was called.
Enough, I said.
Without intending to, I rose slightly into the air.
Madame?the Frenchman said.
I rose a little higher, began floating across the floor.
Where are you going? the Frenchman said.
Away, I said. I’ve had it.
Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out, said my charge.
Have a nice death, I said.
And shot out through the wall.
—
What a refreshment, to be out of that falsity-filled death chamber.
Over at the wedding, the dancing was in full swing.
Using just the right amount of leg-thrust, I propelled myself off the side of the house, over the redwood fence, and then, controlling the rate of my descent via skillful arm-flaps, drifted slowly down, landing gracefully, just so, among a crowd of dancers on a temporary parquet floor, andwhiskedat the speed of light from one guest to the next (two hundred and eleven in all), attempting to drivehimout of my mind and fill it, instead, with these thousands of vivid, co-arising impressions.
Such as:
This fellow, gazing over at the aunt of the bride? Is Kent.
The aunt of the bride (Jeanie) glances back at him. (Such heat.)
Jeanie, the aunt of the bride, is having an affair.
With Kent, boss of her husband.
Whiskinginto Walter (Jeanie’s cheated-upon husband), I see that he’s known about the affair since March, but hasn’t let Jeanie know that he knows, because he’s afraid she might do something rash, such as leave him before she finally gets tired of/burns out on Kent, that petty tyrant, whose office, even when Kent is not in it, has this weird smell to it that seems to emanate from Kent’s chair, which means it ultimately must emanate from Kent’s ass/pants.
Leaving Walter, locating/whiskinginto Jeanie (Walter’s wife,Kent’s lover), I learn that, yes, of course she’s noticed Kent’s smell, but doesn’t actually mind it, associating it, as she does, with long, sexy afternoons in Kent’s office on those days when Kent has sent Walter to Amarillo on business. If things go according to plan, Walter will soon begin traveling perpetually as part of his “promotion” (arranged by Kent) to Amarillo, to Oklahoma City, to Tulsa, to Lincoln, to Iowa City, and then back the same way (Iowa City, Lincoln, Tulsa, Oklahoma City, Amarillo), returning to Dallas only one weekend a month, meaning Kent will (joy, joy!) have her, Jeanie, entirely to himself (and vice versa) for, say, eight weeks out of every nine (!).
She knew it was wrong. Walter was so sweet and kind. It would kill him if he found out.
