Espionage: A Jigsaw in 500 Pieces [part eight]

Peter Wild

[ 1-10 ] [ 11-22 ] [ 23-30 ] [ 31-49 ] [ 50-59 ] [ 60-70 ][ 71-89 ]

[90]
It strikes you that the jigsaw resembles nothing so much as a crude landmass, perhaps an island, a lost world, floating carelessly in the Tropics somewhere. Only, of course, the island isn't floating in the Tropics. It's sat upon the table in front of you alongside a much larger pile of jigsaw pieces, a pile of jigsaw pieces that sit there like an admonition, like a mocking admonition. You've done so much but there is still so much more to do. But you think you have the hang of things, though. You think you know where it's going. You think you have a good grip on the way these things work. But you don't. Do you hear me? Don't take anything for granted, my friend. There are pieces of jigsaw that will slice your fingertips clean off, if you aren't careful. There are pieces of jigsaw that will plunge you into the dark. There are pieces of jigsaw that will hold your head under water, under the water in a toilet bowl, for longer than you can hold your breath. You think you have the measure of things, think you understand how one piece relates to another, how pieces conspire to suggest a narrative. You give yourself something of a mental pat on the back as you sit with your fingers laced, looking down on the jigsaw landmass as if you were some predatory prehistoric bird. But, as is the way of these things, circumstances can change in a flash.

[91]
A case in point being: you pick up a piece of the jigsaw and you turn it in your fingers, the way you would turn a fifty pence piece to evaluate the edges. You see a man, an Italianate man, emerging from a hotel as a large black sedan draws to a stop. A liveried fellow opens the sedan's door and the Italianate man ducks his head and eases himself into the back of the car. This is the man in the darkened room. The man in the darkened room has emerged finally into the light. But we can see more than his face. We can see that this is not in fact present. This is the past, approximately one week before Hal Ashby suffered a shiny metal object to be jutted – jut-jut-jut-jut – between the interstices of his ribs. So it seems that everything we thought was happening simultaneously in fact wasn't. Which presents us with something of a problem. Because it means, basically, that we don't know what is happening contemporaneously. Well, I say that. We know some things. We know that Ed Bamyasi was shaken down by Hal Ashby. We know that Hal Ashby was shaken down by Heplock and Stent. We know stuff. We're aware of how some things fit. But not everything. What the emergence of the man in the darkened hotel room tells us is this: we have to be careful. This jigsaw can sneak up on us by surprise. There is more here than meets the eye. That's what I'm saying.

[92]
And it's disconcerting, I know. You were working hard and putting this thing together in the now apparently mistaken belief that the jigsaw was working in tandem with you. You thought, wrongly now it seems, that you and the jigsaw were a partnership of sorts. You wouldn't go so far as to say that you and the jigsaw were becoming friends, but. You kind of sort of thought that there was a sense in which you were simpatico. Didn't you? You were lowering your defenses. Don't shake your head. I know you were. You were starting to trust the jigsaw, starting to relax, starting to enjoy yourself. And now. You feel like Sleeping Beauty in the bitter seconds that follow the pricking of her thumb. (You remember the story? The evil witch enchanted Sleeping Beauty's sewing machine, Sleeping Beauty, unawares, caught the delicate skin of her thumb upon some terrible poison and fell, tumbled end over end into a terrible sleep.) What I'm saying is: in those first fleeting seconds, as blood welled up through the torn skin and fell like a demonic tear upon the bare wood floor below, Sleeping Beauty had a moment in which to see the world draw away from her, experienced a teetering dizziness upon the cliff edge of sleep, as she wondered, wondered, wondered what could possibly happen next, wondered what the delirious vertigo that swept her being meant…

[93]
What it means is this: you have to re-evaluate your own position to this jigsaw. You have to think of it as being more like a spider's web than you have done previously. It won't go on like this. With all of the pieces fitting neatly together. In a short while, you'll find yourself branching off from this pretty little landmass you've made. For a goodly while the jigsaw will embrace chaos. You might find that you build up a sweet little confection of satellites, clumps of fifty or more pieces that rotate or revolve somewhere about the pieces you've already fit together. You may also find that time stops behaving itself. As you jog from this satellite to that satellite, as you wobble like a tightrope walker along a particular silken thread, you may have to jump, from that thread to this. Sometimes it will be dark. Sometimes you'll be jumping in the dark. That's what I'm telling you. You'll be hopping from one satellite to another and sometimes your feet may start to sink in the mud. It won't always be easy. There will be times when this becomes a struggle. The jigsaw wants to beat you. Right now, the jigsaw wants to beat you. Do you understand? This is a beast that needs taming. You have to stand up to this thing. Show it who's boss. You can do that, can't you? You've got the nerve, the grit, the mettle. I know you have.

[94]
So grit your teeth. Knuckle down. Don't be put off by the fact that the man in the darkened hotel room was a man in a darkened hotel room over a week ago. Don't let it phase you. You need to take these things in your stride. Concentrate on the here and now. Try not to get bogged down in the where and when. Let's make the most of these fleeting moments we have to take a look around. We're in the back of a luxury sedan. This is nice. Not as nice as the Italianate man – formerly the man in the darkened hotel room, keep up keep up – not as nice as the Italianate man is used to, but all the same. It's a luxury sedan. There is a TV and a bar in the back of the car. That's luxury enough for most people, right? But not, as I said, the Italianate man. He is used to a whole heap of luxury. The Italianate man is used to luxury far beyond ordinary common or garden expectations. He's used to the best. He's used to the best of the best. You can tell that just from looking at his face. He's getting on a bit. You can see that now, can't you? He's getting on a bit but there isn't a single line on his face. Part of the reason for that is the Italianate man rarely smiles. He doesn't have a tremendous sense of humour, if we're being honest. But that isn't the only reason why his face is so lean and tan and smooth.

[95]
The Italianate man has a small staff whose job it is to keep him pristine. Pristine is important to the Italianate man. Or at least, pristine – being pristine, shining like chrome – is one thing of undue importance to the Italianate man. Punctuality is another thing. The Italianate man is always on time. He has never missed an appointment in his life. What's more, he prizes punctuality in others, too. Men have died for the sake of punctuality. The Italianate man has seen to their deaths. Yes. That's right. You heard me. The Italianate man should inspire fear in your heart. No wonder your fingers are trembling. He's a scary dude. Sitting here, unbeknownst to the Italianate man (Heavens be praised!), we have a rare opportunity to stare, to drink deep of the Italianate man's eyes. Look at how blue they are. They are blue like some haunted, tropical pool. They seem placid, when you first glance, but then, but then, but when – you look again and what you see the second time arrests you, makes you want to look away but holds you all the same. You wonder what the name would be for a blue that colour. You wonder if maybe he wears contacts or affects his eye-colour with mysterious drops of some kind. But no. He doesn't do anything of the sort. The Italianate man has the eyes of a vampire, they suck you in, you can't help yourself, you could lose yourself in those eyes. But don't.

[96]
Don't lose yourself. Whatever you do. Bite the inside of your mouth hard. Draw blood if you must. Do what needs to be done to wrest yourself free of his eyes. Can you feel your heart racing? You have no idea why, do you? Good. That is probably the best thing. Just. Be on your guard. Okay? Whenever the Italianate man raises his head. Be careful. I should clap you on the back. You've come through a test there. And, more importantly, see. This is a corner piece. How exciting. We have ourselves a corner piece, a corner piece relating to the Italianate man. Suddenly things seem a little more serious even than they did moments earlier. Am I right? Look at you. Look at how excited you are. There's no stopping you now, is there? You're looking about the interior of the car, seeing what you can see. The darkened glass separating the Italianate man from the driver is frustrating. You want to know now how this all fits together with what you have already. You know this happened a week ago. What is this telling you? Why is a man traveling in a car important? I can see you, tapping the side of your head with your index finger. You are trying so hard. Which is to be applauded. You stare, mouth the words Think, think, think over and over as if that will help. Let me help you. You're on the wrong track.

[97]
It isn't so much the fact that the Italianate man is in a car. Okay? I'm not saying it isn't important. Everything is important, in its own way. We have, after all, been granted a rare audience with the Italianate man. There are very few people he ever lets as close as we have been. The Italianate man doesn't let people get close. You could say he has intimacy issues. Of sorts. He can't let people get close to him. Unlike many people with intimacy issues, however, the Italianate man won't let people get close because he fears being opened up, fears the opportunities being open will present to his enemies. The Italianate man knows, if he stays closed up, if he shuts himself away from people, there is less chance of being hurt. Staying closed and shut up protects him. The Italianate man likes to stay in control. Control is very important to him. Control is yet one more thing that is important to him. But I'm digressing. I said that you were on the wrong track, did I not? You were letting yourself focus too closely upon the moment at hand, when in fact you should consider this – the journey, our time with the Italianate man in the back of his luxury sedan – as a moment spent in transition. This should give you all you need to know but in case it doesn't I'll spell it out: it isn't so much where we are right now as where we are going.

[98]
Something else occurs to you. Back during that flurry of telephone calls, the flurry of phonecalls that occurred shortly after Hal Ashby bit the proverbial bullet, the man in the darkened room, as was, the Italianate man currently travelling in his almost but not quite luxury sedan, made a phone call. I don't know about you. I thought maybe he was calling Krakow or Heplock and Stent or maybe John Cassavettes or maybe John C Reilly. But no. Couldn't have been. Couldn't have been, could it? Not if this is a week before all of that happened. You remember how it went? There was a phonecall, a phonecall that awoke the man in the darkened hotel room. Information was relayed, information that provoked nothing in the way of a response from the man in the darkened room himself. And then, of course, the man in the darkened room himself made a telephone call. He spoke in a low voice. It wasn't possible for us to hear even one of the words he muttered surreptitiously into the telephone's mouthpiece. But - and it's an important but - for some reason the jigsaw urges upon us the sense that there is a connection (this piece fits to that piece, the piece here - Italianate man in a luxury sedan - connects to the piece there - the man in a darkened room making a telephone call). It seems reasonable to assume something. But what?

[99]
Here is a clue. The car parks in an alley. Or at least, the car parks in what looks like an alley. It is more like a back street, one of many such back streets in this city of back streets. The Italianate man has not been driven so far. This place is not the right place for a car. This place does not serve cars. But he did not want to walk and he did not want to be seen, and so a car was the only option. Car parked, however, he does not move. One reason is what Thomas Mann called 'the insalubrious air'. Venice stinks. The Italianate man has always hated Venice. The stink of Venice only ever gets more repellent in his nostrils. But that wasn't the only thing. The Italianate man was reliably informed that not half a hundred yards away, Steve McQueen - the Italianate man's nemesis for the better part of a quarter of a century - was strapped to a chair and awaiting his arrival. Steve McQueen. The Italianate man wanted to spit. Just the fact that he didn't know the real name of his nemesis, that he had to refer to the man using the code name, a code name that attempted to marry the very real world of espionage to the very unreal world of American cinema, just that fact alone was enough to twist his guts up into all kinds of different shapes. Fucking Americans. Still and all, he had little choice. Steve McQueen was the only person alive who knew for sure where the package was. Affanculo. The Italianate man whispered Affanculo under his breath. Then he stepped out of the car.

© Peter Wild 2006 / 2007

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.