NEW YORK CITY, USA
Today
Speeding, spinning hearts. Thumping as a glorious, bloody chorus. Can you feel it? Faster again, building to some kind of crescendo. So these were as one, connected by dizzy madness. One point six million more beating out there on that tiny and wild and scared and suffering island, once the calm home of the Lenape Indians who smoked a peace pipe with strangers and the game was up. The Dutch took it, called it New Amsterdam. The British renamed it New York, finally losing it to the New Americans and the beat, the beat it made would shake the planet. Another heart in this drama, Manhattan the nervous ultimate.
***
The Butcher was excited. This was why he did it. The sly thrill, the adrenaline, the aching heart, pulsing blood, tingling palms. He needed this to feel alive. He knew it was wrong, sick, that he should be locked away in a mental institution, put down, even. He knew this yet he still committed the acts. Truly, this is the definition of beyond crazy. He stared at himself in the bathroom mirror, eventually decided that he liked what he saw, smiled.
‘I’m coming, sweetheart,’ he called over his shoulder.
He admired the ornate mirror, with its blemished reflection.
He washed his hands again, checked his fingernails. He pulled on a pair of non-latex surgical gloves, flexed his fingers. He selected the required items from the tray of surgical equipment, left the bathroom and marched down the brightly-lit corridor, with its early Pollock, dripping red and green and black and white, and its Picasso litho print, Head of a Young Boy from 1945. The living room was dark, dominated by a wall of window, the office towers and hotels of downtown Manhattan shimmering in the dying light, 1 WTC’s angled planes ablaze. The silhouette of a girl tied to a chair, back-lit by the loathed, hating, fighting, conspiring city. He glanced at the clock, one of those old French designs, and saw that it was time.
Once you listened for it, its low tick filled the room.
He found the leader for the intravenous drip tube and jabbed it into her forearm. She recoiled, her eyes pleading, her mouth silenced by the gag. The drug - propofol - had an instant effect and she slumped forward. From now on, everything was timed to the minute. This was what his heart craved. She slept soundly, twitching gently like a newborn.
He took her hand in his and made the first incision.
***
Sophie cursed, but under her breath. She wasn't the kind of chef that gloried in foul language, bullying or ego. It was about the food, not about her. But, Jesus, the Speaker of the House of Representatives is out there and he's waiting for his pesto chicken á l'orange and what’s with the oven? The oven!
Basil and citrus took their vows and began a beautiful, if short, life together.
‘Timing and communication, Carl! Can you give me an ETA on the mains for table four? What's wrong with that damned oven?’
Carl knew not to do a visual, not to open the oven door. That would cost an extra two minutes’ cooking time. He calculated from experience that they would be ready in three minutes. He also knew that his boss knew. She was just venting. But he would still get the oven temps checked tomorrow.
Three hundred and sixty degrees Fahrenheit - a hot 360 - same temperature as a match igniting.
‘Three minutes, chef.’ Just don’t fucking burn it!
‘Will they be perfect, Carl?’
‘Yes, chef,’ he said, wiping his sweaty forehead with a filthy-looking towel from over his shoulder. Yes, chef. Your recipe always turns out perfectly. The congressman adores it, as do many more of the richest one percent of the city.
The food would be great, she knew this, but still she fretted, needed the approval that only a clean plate could deliver and her heart, her heart.
‘How are the sides doing, Carl?’
‘We're there, chef,’ he replied, a bead of his sweat falling, as if in slow motion, onto the vast, bubbling potato gratin dish as he raised it from another oven. The bowls of salad were all set and the broccoli was just gone into the steamer. The broccoli could not be overcooked, that was a sin. Contrary to the Law of Sophie.
Sophie paced the kitchen at Oral Pleasures. She sucked on a stick of celery, fought the urge for a cigarette, made sure that every dish for every diner was perfect. She wondered what it was that drove chefs to seek approval so, to work sixteen hour days, to avoid the idea of life outside the kitchen, away from the brigade of chefs. Did they all have love-free childhoods like mine?
‘Table four?’
‘Ready, chef,’ said Carl as he carefully took the dishes from the oven, the cherry tomatoes pulsing, the reduced orange sauce honeymooning with the pesto, pulsing, bubbling, to fill the kitchen with the uniquely delicious aroma.
He stuck his index finger into the chicken. One, t -, ow! If you can’t reach three, the meat’s hot enough.
Sophie smiled, inhaled the buzz.
Better than sex? Depends on the lover.
She plated the dishes herself, using a cookie cutter to pick out a perfect disc of gratin, placing the moist, dripping chicken breast on top, arranging the broccoli florets and cherry tomatoes around the perimeter, pouring the zesty sauce over the top. Then she added a sprinkle of fine sea salt and a shower of roughly-chopped basil from the roof garden, freshest possible flavours. ‘What do the Chinese say, Carl?’
‘We eat with our eyes first, chef.’
The dishes were laid out under the hot lamps, all in a row.
‘Beautiful,’ said Sophie, going around the rims of the plates with her towel one more time. ‘Happy with everything, Carl?’
‘All good, chef.’
‘Happy to hear that. Because Sam doesn't like surprises.’
***
Those microseconds of condensed thought, memories that always rested just there at the front of his temporal lobe.
‘Christ,’ he thought. ‘My heart can’t take too much more of this.’
The room was hot and wet and the tension was visible across every face. For Jacob, time dilation had begun with the very first bid. The man with the gavel looked straight at him.
‘Do I hear seven point one?’
Seven million and change for a bowl? Okay, it’s a French tureen from the seventeen thirties, made by Thomas Germain for the court of Louis XV. So it’s a beautiful thing from a very different and unique time, with its delicate silver branches, each leaf exquisite, and its lid handle in the form of hounds bringing down a stag. But it’s still a freaking soup bowl.
Jacob nodded. Yes. I bid seven point one million dollars for the bowl.
‘I have seven point one. Do I have seven point two?’
The frozen stag, its scream petrified, looked to the ceiling for mercy.
Jacob’s gaze roamed around the auction room, sought out the other bidders. Rich people spoke on phones, made mental calculations, wondered what their other halves would say if they went any further. What about the economy? The hesitancy stretched and Jacob could finally taste victory.
Seven point one. Bang. The auctioneer confirmed that the sale was done and that Jacob (or rather, Jacob’s super-rich client in Shanghai) was now the proud owner of the bowl. So much money to be made in manufacturing the electronic junk that kept the hordes amused. Would the smartphones and games consoles be tomorrow’s antiques? Hardly - there was simply too much of the damned tat. He looked around the room, almost every person tapping a glowing glass screen. We are slaves to our gadgets.
His iPhone purred. A message from the office about the article, the damned article.
Jacob’s heart relaxed at the proximate reality of his one percent commission, but just a little. As he made his way through the crowded room, people smiled at him appreciatively, some in awe, thinking he was Bill Gates or somebody, with his casually immaculate suede jacket and slightly gawky grin. Spectacles too. Just as he reached the sales office, Sarah, his editorial assistant from the magazine - Antique Guru - appeared at his side. She was young, sharp-minded and, of course, shockingly beautiful, crammed into her charcoal grey suit. She made his forty-something heart skip a beat.
‘Did you get everything?’
She held up her notebook. ‘Every detail, every nuance. I’ll type it up for you tomorrow.’
‘Good. Sorry for being so obsessive. I just need records. I don’t know exactly why.’
‘Are you staying on after you've been through the formalities?’ she asked.
‘Well, I do have an interest, a personal interest, in a lot that's up soon.’ He wanted to say that he was shattered, bone-weary, that late auctions were a chore and he so needed to get to bed. But he hoped -
‘Feel like grabbing a drink downtown after?’
‘Oh? Where were you thinking?’
‘Bleecker Street. A friend's band is playing The Bitter End later.’
Giddy blood coursed through hardening arteries.
Later? It's nine thirty already!
‘Sounds great. I used to love Bleecker Street.’
He resolved not to comment on the unnecessarily high music volume when they reached the bar. But that would be a big ask. Always trying to act so young, it’s going to get you into trouble one day. Not your fault dad got Alzheimer’s at forty.
First, a quick double espresso at the bar. Second, business. Back in the sales room, the loud murmurs dropped to a hush, then a gasp, as the white-gloved assistant held up a slim old volume.
The auctioneer said ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we are delighted to offer an original work by the famed seer Michel de Nostradame. Published in 1555, the Traite des Fardemens is one his lesser works, containing a variety of beauty treatments and recipes, including his famed recipes for cherry jam which, I am told, has never been bettered. We will start the bidding at $50,000 for what I’m sure you'll agree is a fascinating piece of history, provenance assured.’
You’d be crazy to get involved, Jacob.
He grimaced at the high starting price, which was immediately accepted by a telephone bidder. It jumped, five grand at a time to seventy in under a minute. Christ! Jacob had made seventy-one thousand for winning the bowl and had some more money to spare. One hundred was the limit that he'd set himself, honestly not expecting the book to reach that level. And remember the almost nine percent sales tax on top. He had an overdraft facility of fifty thou at twelve percent, had been living off it, couple of lean months. Forty grand left to play with there. Bank was calling it in, two weeks away. Worry about it then. How would Jacob's generation cope when the easy credit disappeared?
Best to just stay out this time.
At eighty thousand, he made his first bid. Blame the adrenaline.
The telephone bidder dropped out.
But a tall, blond woman in an implausibly white Chanel suit wanted the book.
Something about her.
Eighty-five.
Ninety.
Miss Chanel went to the hundred thousand.
Jacob gritted his teeth and went the extra five. Worst case, sell off my art.
Turned out she didn't want the book so badly. Christ. One-o-five. Call it one-fourteen, with taxes. Jesus. That’s it. I’m bust. Sarah appeared at his side and squeezed his hand. Her cheeks were flushed.
‘Oh. My. God. That was so exciting! You did it!’
‘She almost had me,’ Jacob said, nodding towards Miss Chanel, who’d been staring at him.
‘She doesn't look overly-happy.’
‘Jesus, I do need a drink now. Just let me finalise the transaction. You want to come back to the sales office?’
‘Can I? Wow,’ said Sarah, giddy like a nine-year-old.
As they walked towards the office, Jacob noticed the woman in the Chanel suit approaching. From a distance she was striking, up close she was as arresting as a Greek goddess, her physical presence preceded by the Sicilian lemon notes of her Annick Goutal perfume. There must be a statue of her somewhere, figured Jacob.
‘Mr Johnson?’
‘Yes?’ My God, look at you.
‘Might I have a word with you alone, please? It concerns some business that you may be interested in.’
Jacob would have taken time for her if she wanted to talk about paint drying. As it was, he had just created a fatal hole in his finances, so new business was a very good thing.
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘And your name?’
‘Julia,’ looking at Sarah.
‘This is my assistant, Sarah. Sarah, can I see you at the bar in a few minutes?’
Sarah, utterly professional, smiled and left.
‘Sorry about the book,’ said Jacob.
‘Forget the book. I just wanted to get your attention.’
‘Wow. Okay. You’ve got it,’ he said. And cost me, what, twenty grand?
‘Tell me, would like a taste of heaven?’
‘I don't think I know - . Ah. Yes. Yes I would.’
‘You understand?’
‘Goodies from the bottom of the Baltic?’
‘Exactly. So, that specific lot is being auctioned here next Monday and I need you to become a member of a bidding ring. I cannot, under any circumstances, lose the auction.’
Jacob appraised the woman again. ‘Isn’t a bidding ring illegal?’
‘Flat fee. Fifty k. Are you in?’
‘I’m in.’
***
Where was daddy?
‘Daddy?’ she cried feebly, but it didn't sound right. Like it was somebody else talking, a little kid maybe.
It was dark, but hazy lights swam into focus. They were outside. Through a window.
‘Mom?’
She felt weird, like her body was coated in something viscous, honey or maple syrup. Where am I? A dull pain in the back of her neck began to pulse through her body then, cut through the honey. She became aware of a tightness around her wrists and, yes, also around her ankles. She wriggled, but she couldn't move.
The tightness turned to discomfort and - what? - what was the sensation in her hand? It began to burn. Then, all at once, the morphine wore off and her heart jump-started back to a fast rhythm, the hurt and the panic consuming her. She wriggled her fingers, felt that honey again, sticky, piercing. A dizzying awareness that her little finger was gone. Gone.
She vomited an acrid bile but the gag in her mouth blocked its escape and she struggled and choked and cried and eventually swallowed it back down. Her tears were hot and salty and she could smell roasted meat then. Like pork or something.
A vague sizzle, a ticking clock.
Her wet eyes saw something else through the distorted darkness, the city half-light. A few yards away stood an old artist's easel, rich layers of burnt umber and raw sienna and sap green on cherry wood, and on it was a picture of her dad. An election poster from his successful congressional campaign.
‘Daddy?’
***
The heart monitor beeped lazily, as if saying Are you sure you want me to bother?
The man lay in a deep sleep, his skin grey and dry as a careless fish, out of water for days. He looked older than his ninety-seven years. Something to do with the quality of his life.
The only window was in the ceiling. The sky was cobalt blue, like a fine evening dress or a high summer’s star-scattered midnight.
The art on the walls of his little room would be changed today.
‘I would like a Van Gogh,’ he muttered. ‘There, beside my favourite Cézanne.’
‘Of course, Doctor,’ she said, occupied.
The nurse fussed over his morning injection, placing the syringe of thick, pink liquid into the metering device. It had been prepared in the adjacent laboratory, a scientific wonderland of the most advanced machines on Earth, a chemist’s candy store of elixirs, stem cells, poisons and explosives. He closed his eyes and thought about the past. Some would say that he’d led a bad life. But he didn’t see it like that. There were so many good memories, such glowing achievements, tantalising glimpses of world-conquering success. We so nearly had it all. Then the collapse, the escape to America with the delicate planting of the story of the second life, first hiding in plain sight in Germany, then the escape to Egypt, the conversion to Islam and the death in 1992. Case closed.
That would have been your worst nightmare, America, a Nazi Muslim!
As the liquid oozed into the plastic tube and inched down to his arm, he pondered the past and relished the future. The plans were perfect, every aspect gently falling into place.
Gently. This was how the greatest deeds were accomplished.
The world would soon be his. It was so close he could taste it.
He licked his lips, so dry. He smiled and they cracked.
His heart rate began to increase as the potion - the sum of his life’s research - did its work. For a few long seconds he felt strong, excited, like he was a young man during the Great Years. To be!
The nurse frowned as she made some notes on a chart. She rubbed some balm on the man’s lips, gently. His smile was easier now. She peeled off her latex gloves, washed her hands, got a fresh pair from a dispenser on a white cabinet. Then she sat in a worn leather armchair beside the bed, carefully took a book from the Rococo side table. He relaxed, stared at the monitor that displayed real time financial data from all the world’s markets.
Shakespeare’s Hamlet, Good Quarto, printed in 1605.
The old man sat up then, the machines beeping frantically. CNN’s Richard Quest on the screen, very excited. He looks a Jew, but I like him just the same. A graph, numbers popping. The tipping point had been reached.
The nurse put the book down. What a piece of work is a man!
‘Nurse!’ he called eagerly, some colour in his cheeks, his eyes alive for the first time in weeks. ‘Get me the congressman. Get him now. The markets have completed the plan. It is time for us to take the world. To take it.’
The nurse began to dial the number that was written on a card by the phone.
‘Please stay calm, Doctor. Your heart -’
‘My heart,’ he laughed, a cruel cackle. He hissed ‘My heart ceased to exist in 1940. I have a muscle that pumps my vril, my life force. But I have no heart. Now if you do not make that telephone call schnell, you will not see sunset. Is this clear?’
She glanced at his eyes but there was a force in them that she could not comprehend, something black. Her hands shook as she hit the number keys, praying to God that the congressman would answer quickly.
Or not to be?