Espionage: A Jigsaw in 500 Pieces

by Peter Wild

[ 1 ]

It is a jigsaw puzzle, this life. Do you understand? You take a box from offof the shelf. Perhaps it is a high shelf and perhaps the box is covered in dust. Perhaps the dust leads you to believe that the contents of the box are without interest. Perhaps you are that kind of person. Perhaps you can look no further than the end of your nose. You have no - 'ow you say? - imagination. But then perhaps I am jumping the gun. Perhaps I am making assumptions about you. My wife tells me that is a habit of mine. I try to fight my nature, try to think the best of people but. People so often let you down. I can see you smiling over the rim of your wine glass. Perhaps you have been disappointed as well, disappointed by other people, disappointed by life. I'm digressing. My wife tells me that is a habit of mine, also. We were talking about the jigsaw puzzle. You've chanced across the dusty box. You've taken it down. You hold it up close to your face and you blow and the dust is lifted to spin and twist like a foreign goat's horns. But the dust is heavy. The picture is hard to see. You lower the box and run your fingers, the four fingers of your right hand, back and forth. Things are made a little clearer, but still. Some of the dust, some of the years of grime, sticks. Fuck it, you think. Fuck it. You'll start.

[ 2 ]

So you empty the pieces out on the dining room table. The pieces of this particular jigsaw form quite a pile. This will take some time. You draw up a chair. After all, jigsaws are serious. A person should sit in order to pay them the attention they deserve. Am I right? I can see my wife shaking her head. Always with the need to ask whether he's right, she says from the kitchen. My wife has habits too, though she would be loathe to admit them. She likes to speak of me as if I am not here, as if she is addressing a mysterious third party. But there is no-one else here but she and I. And you, of course. But you are busy with the jigsaw. You are busy running your hands through the pile of jigsaw pieces, razing the ground, laying things out. It may be that you pick up a piece or two to see what you can see. I like that. You have an inquisitive mind. Commendations to you, my friend. Commendations. And what do you see? Nothing that makes sense, more than likely. A lot of people would have quit already. The pile of pieces would have deterred them. But not you. You, I see, are licking your finger, returning to the lid of the box. You are looking for the text. Words always help in a situation like this, don't you find? You lick your finger and you rub your still glistening saliva along the bottom of the box.

[ 3 ]

ESPIONAGE. Your finger illuminates a word. ESPIONAGE. It's a good word. You like it. You're intrigued. But you're more interested in the number of words. How long will this thing take you after all? You don't want to spend your entire life on a jigsaw. It's a leisure pursuit. There's nothing wrong with leisure pursuits. I think that's probably another thing we're all agreed on. But, all the same. You don't want to embark on a jigsaw puzzle made up of twenty three and a half thousand pieces now, do you? That would be insane. You're a busy person. You have a life to lead. A life that exists beyond these four plain walls. I understand. And yet, all the same, that word. ESPIONAGE. It draws you in. You lick your finger again and rub at the box some more. You uncover the words A JIGSAW. You like that, too. You are happy that here is a jigsaw that knows it is a jigsaw and is happy to share the fact with you. I know you're a jigsaw, you think. You know you're a jigsaw. Everybody knows where they are. A spade has been called a spade and the spade knows it and likes it. It is good. You tentatively place your index finger upon your tongue (tentatively because you know that your finger is starting to taste of dust, dust and dead things). The box gives up its final cheapest secret. IN 500 PIECES. You raise the box aloft once more and read the line aloud because you feel the moment is worthy of celebration. Here is a moment worth recording: ESPIONAGE: A JIGSAW IN 500 PIECES.

[ 4 ]

You return to the pieces themselves. Don't mind me or my wife. We are just bickering. It is what we do. We are an old married couple and we like to bicker. But we know the pleasures of a good jigsaw. Don't worry. We will not distract you. I see you are not concerned, overly. You are young. You have youth on your side. Your hand is wrist deep in the pile. This is you all over, I am coming to see. You plunge in. You do not waste a minute. Time is precious. Good. This is a good attitude, a healthy attitude. We will get along, you and I. You are meticulous, in your way. You are behaving exactly as I hoped you would, taking up a piece here and a piece there. Yes. You're right. Some of the pieces are peculiarly shaped. Some pieces have a flat edge. They will help you to arrange things, perhaps. The flat edges will help you get what you young people call a handle on things, am I right? In time, you may chance upon a corner piece. There are only four of these. They are to be treasured, prized. Look out for them when they come. They too will help you. There are people in the world who like to dig out the corners first, who like to have the corners arrayed before them before anything else happens. Worse. There are people who search out corners and flat edges and build up a perimeter. These people. They like to fence everything in, don't they? They like to take the taste out of the fruit. But not you. Not you.

[ 5 ]

No. Oh no. Not you. You take up one piece and hold it against another. Patently, the two pieces are not a match. This does not deter you. You hold a piece in your right hand. It has a sharp corner, a fierce hard edge, two bulbous protrusions. You hold a piece in your left hand. It has curves and indentations. The piece in your right hand is sharp. You touch your index finger to the point. The piece in your left hand is soft, welcoming. The two pieces are partners, of sorts. But not for each other. There will be many such partners. You consign the two pieces to the pile, dig deeper, see what you can wrestle free. There are so many pieces, and. The way you emptied the box. All you can see is card. The back of the jigsaw pieces. A large pile of jigsaw pieces the colour of a cardboard box. There are odd stray shoots of colour here and there, but colour is the exception. So you take up a piece and you flip it over. To see what you can see. You see a dog. Another piece, you see a gun. Another piece, you see a face. Part of an arm. Another piece you see a young, ample breast. Another piece you see a sandwich. Another, a brown paper bag. But that is not all.

[ 6 ]

The pieces of the jigsaw, you see, appear to have something of a mystical quality about them. This is not a common or garden jigsaw puzzle. You can see that now, can't you? You're pretty quick on the uptake, my friend. I was watching you, out of the corner of my eye. I knew almost the precise moment you twigged. You were holding the piece of jigsaw with the sandwich on. Am I right? You were holding the sandwich between your thumb and your index finger and - you could taste it, couldn't you? The piece is no larger than your thumb nail but you knew. You knew the sandwich was cold roast beef. Peppered roast beef. You could taste the pepper on your tongue. What's more. You could taste the bread. You thought for a moment it was some dusky rye bread, but no. It's nothing so fancy. It's ciabatta. And more. You thought for a minute that he was using horseradish on the beef, which is a practice you detest - another thing you and I have in common, my friend, incidentally - but then, no. It wasn't horseradish, was it? It was coarse grain mustard. You like coarse grain mustard. Beef, course grain mustard, ciabatta. It's a good sandwich. It almost makes you hungry, doesn't it? But the sandwich is just the tip of the proverbial iceberg.

[ 7 ]

You take up the dog. I'm watching you from the stairwell. From the smile on your face, I can tell. You're a dog person. You had a dog as a kid, didn't you. You're holding that piece of jigsaw puzzle and you're thinking back. So many romps in the park, yes? Your German Shepherd. Or was it a dachsund? You're filled to the brim with memories, suddenly. A birthday party. You were three. Your mother forgot to buy the cake. There was a misunderstanding between your parents, a fight in the kitchen. Another time, crying and alone on your bed, your dog whining in a shared sorrow. You loved that dog, didn't you? All of the love. The love is flooding you. But there's sadness, too. You grew up after all. You moved away. And the end? Your mother, on the telephone, with you in the hallway of the halls of residence, with people pissing about right, left and centre. But it isn't just your dog, though. The dog on the jigsaw piece is not yours. This is another dog, a dog that forms part of a larger story. Sitting there at the table with the small postage stamp of jigsaw puzzle between your fingers, you know things. You're aware of this dog. But you don't know how he fits within the larger puzzle.

[ 8 ]

And what a large puzzle it is. You push your fingers through the pieces one more time, spreading things out so you can see the table. Thinking about it, you're getting ready. You want to see the wood for the trees before you launch in. There are faces. You can see them without touching them. There's a young guy, a youngish guy. You can see his face. He's maybe in his late twenties. He's listening to an iPOD. Without even picking the piece up, you know he's listening to Daniel Johnston. You even know the song. He's listening to Living Life. You like that song. You always have. Such a fucking beautiful song. There's a girl, too. She has short blonde hair. My wife tells me it's called something like a pixie cut, but that can't be true. She's full of blather, the wife. Just ignore her. But the girl. The girl on the other hand. She sure is pretty. Even I can see that and my eyesight isn't what it once was. Blonde hair, blue eyes, cheekbones, a full mouth. Oh yes. Ah, but yes. You're right. There is something mean about her as well. Beauty isn't everything. There are other people: two men, one of whom looks like the legendary film director, John Cassavettes, and one of whom looks like the up and coming character actor John C Reilly; there's a woman who you have to admit is the spitting image of Ali McGraw; a guy who looks like Syd Barrett... It's overwhelming.

[ 9 ]

Worse than this, however, worse than the sense of how overwhelming committing to a project like this can be, you are aware of other faces, other details within the jigsaw puzzle that - you can't be quite sure but - you think you don't like parts of this jigsaw. You spotted a piece of jigsaw with a gun earlier, do you remember? And there's a piece with a mouth on - an ugly mouth, two sluglike cancroid lips, the mouth of Edward G Robinson. You don't like that mouth. There are medical implements arrayed on a tray. Small, stylish knives flashing in the sun. And worse. Much worse. There are pieces beneath the pieces, places you are not yet ready to delve into. There's something rotten in the state of this jigsaw. Best not to think about it. Best just to crack on. Don't worry. It's only a jigsaw. You can stop at any time. And don't forget, this is my house. My wife and I will be pottering around. Just shout if you need a cup of tea. My wife makes an excellent - sorry? Oh. You're a coffee drinker. You're a coffee drinker. Of course. In that case. I have some very fine Turkish coffee under the sink. Have you ever partaken of Turkish coffee? You haven't? Well then, my friend, you can consider yourself in for a treat. But I'm distracting you.

[ 10 ]

The best thing - with the jigsaw, with anything - is just to start. Have a good rummage. Join up some pieces. I'll start you off. Look. See this piece - and this piece. They fit together, don't they? What satisfaction. We've started. We've begun. We've put our first foot on the hill and we're off. But let's not get ahead of ourselves. There is still much to be done. We have to look at what we've got, don't we? It's a bit of a road. But not an English road. This is a road made of sand and - there, do you see? - the edge of a building, a building that also appears to have been made of sand, although that can't be the case. Here. You take a look. Your eyesight is probably better than mine. What? Where? Let me put my spectacles on. Yes. Yes. You're right. It certainly looks that way. Graffiti. Possibly. But the handwriting. If you can talk about handwriting when you're referring to graffiti. Or is it graffito? Either way. I agree. It does look like Arabic. And - I'm glad I've put my spectacles on - I've found a third piece. That makes things much clearer, doesn't it? Three pieces start to tell a story. We're in Israel. Don't start so. I know about these things. I say I know about these things. It's obvious. It's Israel. That's where all stories begin. Or where they should all begin, at any rate.

© Peter Wild 2006

Peter Wild is the co-founder of Bookmunch. He is the editor of a forthcoming series of books for Serpent's Tail, the first two of which - Perverted by Language: Fiction inspired by The Fall and The Empty Page: Fiction inspired by Sonic Youth - will be published in 2007. His writing and fiction have appeared in various outlets including Scarecrow, NOO Journal, Word Riot, Laura Hird, Nude Magazine, Thieves Jargon, Dreams That Money Can Buy and Eyeballkid.