from here, he said, waving his hand in a way that was both a dismissal and a farewell.
Leaning on his walker he took small shuffling steps to the elevator and waited there until the door opened. He looked quickly in Angelâs direction and offered a smile that came from the depths of his misery. Then he disappeared.
THE MAN WITH THE HANDLEBAR MUSTACHE
T wo months after meeting her, Angel moved in with Amanda. He was tired of bony females and jagged angles, tired of their clacking as they turned over in bed. He wanted the softness of clouds, the keening of inner organs trapped in flesh, a body like laughter, the breeching of whales in an icy fjord. Amanda wore caftans and heavy silver jewelry on her arms that jangled loudly when she moved. He could hear her in the kitchen, he could hear her in the bathroom, and he could hear her in the hallway outside the door even before he could see her. She was devoted to necromancy and had a gift for communicating with the dead, asking them questions the answers to which came in code. If she asked, Will I be able to pay the rent next month? the answer might be, The effervescence of golf balls afflicts a pretentious entity. Which might mean yes or no depending on the position of the stars at the moment the question was asked and on the amplitude of her imagination, which matched her bodyâs.
When Amanda spoke, underground springs burst from her voice, and when she breathed she blew a hot southern wind that brought with it the nostalgia of tropical forests. She was the best lover Angel ever had. She had no scruples, and the word no did not exist for her in bed. Once, after a particular session in which the firmaments blew open and the oceans parted, she told him that his mother had communicated with her and told her the name and address of the man who had knifed him. He laughed, not believing her, in any event, not wanting to know so many years after the incident who it was who had almost caused his demise. Vengeance has its statute of limitations. He nodded and stared at the ceiling, thinking about muse spiders. She added that the attacker had a handlebar mustache and five daughters and lived in their neighborhood. He nodded again and pretended to fall asleep.
What was he supposed to do, find the man, confront him, and seek retribution of some sort? Not worth the effort. He had healed fully, the only evidence of the knifing a small scar on his belly where the blade slipped through. Amanda liked to lick the scar. Like a little worm, she once said, a slimy sugar worm floating on the milk of his belly. He was lucky. It could have been an anvil dropped on his head from a fifth-floor window. It could have been a drunk driver jumping the curb and crushing him against the liquor store. It could have been something less obvious but no less lethalâan aneurism, a massive coronary.
For a long time he wished the knifer would die a horrible death. That wish was still hiding in a recondite part of his mind, but he was no longer willing to act on it. His will had been diverted to other pursuits. So when Amanda told him what his mother had revealed to her, he was upset, not because it brought back that awful night and the months of recovery, but because he was expectedâexpected himselfâto act on the information.
He sat up in bed and said, I wonât do it.
Amanda asked, Do what?
Find the man with the mustache and the five daughters. There must be more than one man in this city who wears a handlebar mustache and is the father of five daughters.
Who lives in our neighborhood? Amanda asked.
How do we know you werenât dreaming.
I was dreaming, she said.
How do we know the information is reliable?
It came from your mother, she said.
It could have been a demon in disguise. Youâve said sometimes demons trick people by assuming the identity of a loved one.
This was no demon. It was your mother.
Are you sure?
Her maiden name was González.
He left the house that
Leaning on his walker he took small shuffling steps to the elevator and waited there until the door opened. He looked quickly in Angelâs direction and offered a smile that came from the depths of his misery. Then he disappeared.
THE MAN WITH THE HANDLEBAR MUSTACHE
T wo months after meeting her, Angel moved in with Amanda. He was tired of bony females and jagged angles, tired of their clacking as they turned over in bed. He wanted the softness of clouds, the keening of inner organs trapped in flesh, a body like laughter, the breeching of whales in an icy fjord. Amanda wore caftans and heavy silver jewelry on her arms that jangled loudly when she moved. He could hear her in the kitchen, he could hear her in the bathroom, and he could hear her in the hallway outside the door even before he could see her. She was devoted to necromancy and had a gift for communicating with the dead, asking them questions the answers to which came in code. If she asked, Will I be able to pay the rent next month? the answer might be, The effervescence of golf balls afflicts a pretentious entity. Which might mean yes or no depending on the position of the stars at the moment the question was asked and on the amplitude of her imagination, which matched her bodyâs.
When Amanda spoke, underground springs burst from her voice, and when she breathed she blew a hot southern wind that brought with it the nostalgia of tropical forests. She was the best lover Angel ever had. She had no scruples, and the word no did not exist for her in bed. Once, after a particular session in which the firmaments blew open and the oceans parted, she told him that his mother had communicated with her and told her the name and address of the man who had knifed him. He laughed, not believing her, in any event, not wanting to know so many years after the incident who it was who had almost caused his demise. Vengeance has its statute of limitations. He nodded and stared at the ceiling, thinking about muse spiders. She added that the attacker had a handlebar mustache and five daughters and lived in their neighborhood. He nodded again and pretended to fall asleep.
What was he supposed to do, find the man, confront him, and seek retribution of some sort? Not worth the effort. He had healed fully, the only evidence of the knifing a small scar on his belly where the blade slipped through. Amanda liked to lick the scar. Like a little worm, she once said, a slimy sugar worm floating on the milk of his belly. He was lucky. It could have been an anvil dropped on his head from a fifth-floor window. It could have been a drunk driver jumping the curb and crushing him against the liquor store. It could have been something less obvious but no less lethalâan aneurism, a massive coronary.
For a long time he wished the knifer would die a horrible death. That wish was still hiding in a recondite part of his mind, but he was no longer willing to act on it. His will had been diverted to other pursuits. So when Amanda told him what his mother had revealed to her, he was upset, not because it brought back that awful night and the months of recovery, but because he was expectedâexpected himselfâto act on the information.
He sat up in bed and said, I wonât do it.
Amanda asked, Do what?
Find the man with the mustache and the five daughters. There must be more than one man in this city who wears a handlebar mustache and is the father of five daughters.
Who lives in our neighborhood? Amanda asked.
How do we know you werenât dreaming.
I was dreaming, she said.
How do we know the information is reliable?
It came from your mother, she said.
It could have been a demon in disguise. Youâve said sometimes demons trick people by assuming the identity of a loved one.
This was no demon. It was your mother.
Are you sure?
Her maiden name was González.
He left the house that
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