creases in his forehead as deep as knife scars. His palms are rough and calloused, as if from years of wielding a shovel or pick, but his fingernails are immaculate, professionally trimmed and polished. One time Natasha, staring straight into the fire, her chin held high, declared that Uncle Blue had beaten a man to death twenty years before, over a woman. She was lying, of course – if Uncle Blue had beaten a man to death he never would have boasted to Natasha or anyone else. Still, nobody doubts Natasha’s story. After all, he has the hands of a fighting man, several fingertips splayed sideways, knuckles swollen. His wrists are as thick as Natasha’s ankles.
Natasha ought to know him best, but she doesn’t; she never questions him. Not that he refuses to answer, or that he forbids her from speaking – he makes no rules and has never uttered a harsh word. Uncle Blue is clean, courteous, and generous. He pays with hundred-dollar bills pulled from a silver money clip; the bills are always mint condition, the clip always full.
When he enters the house tonight she silently rises from her fire-side bench and climbs the stairs to the largest bedroom. Outside is winter, the skeletal trees of Prospect Park, the streetlights crowned with yellow haloes. A dying fly buzzes feebly on the windowsill. Their transaction complete, Uncle Blue sits shirtless at the foot of the bed, forearms folded over his knees, the black spade of his beard resting on his chest. He remains in this position for a minute and then begins to dress. Natasha wonders if he is married, has children; she wonders why he never asks her about herself. Her other regulars probe her constantly, fancy themselves white knights destined to rescue her from the profane life. Uncle Blue does not care about Natasha’s whereabouts when he is absent; he does not care what led her to this profession, whether she cries at night, whether she longs for a calm suburban marriage. A single problem lies knotted in his mind; all his thoughts are directed at unraveling its complexities. Any errors will lead to trouble, and Uncle Blue has worked too hard, for too long, to tolerate self-inflicted trouble. The stupidities and betrayals of other people can never be eliminated; that is the essential problem facing every great businessman. In the slop of this world, a realist seeks only to minimize damage. Tonight Uncle Blue will murder a man. He cannot afford to make any mistakes.
Six
Jakob is one of the greatest pedestrians in New York’s history. He angles through the crowd, slipping the jabs and hooks of oncoming walkers, ducking below tree branches, tiptoeing along the curb’s edge, dodging the scattered piles of dog shit, waiting for an opening, and then darting into the clear. Like all good citizens of the city, Jakob has learned to avert his eyes from the freaks of the street: the panhandling amputees, the palsied church-step dwellers, the deranged sideshows picking through the garbage.
He threads his way through the rushing mob outside the 72nd Street subway station. Past the turnstile, down the stairs, he finds the emptiest stretch of platform; when the train arrives he burrows into the scrum of the packed car, snatches a strap, and holds on as the train accelerates. Jakob’s tolerance for alcohol is minimal. The two beers he drank with LoBianco have left him disoriented, a woozy wedge driven between mind and body. He pictures himself, his true self , commanding this spastic Jakob android from a remote location. What is this body? he wonders. And why did I have to get it?
Sometimes when he wakes up in the morning the face he sees in the bathroom mirror seems unfamiliar and unhelpful. He will squint at this tired face like a man at a high school reunion trying to remember the name of a classmate vaguely associated with disappointing times. Jakob doesn’t like the body he’s got, but it’s more than that; he feels he doesn’t truly belong to this body. There was a mistake
Natasha ought to know him best, but she doesn’t; she never questions him. Not that he refuses to answer, or that he forbids her from speaking – he makes no rules and has never uttered a harsh word. Uncle Blue is clean, courteous, and generous. He pays with hundred-dollar bills pulled from a silver money clip; the bills are always mint condition, the clip always full.
When he enters the house tonight she silently rises from her fire-side bench and climbs the stairs to the largest bedroom. Outside is winter, the skeletal trees of Prospect Park, the streetlights crowned with yellow haloes. A dying fly buzzes feebly on the windowsill. Their transaction complete, Uncle Blue sits shirtless at the foot of the bed, forearms folded over his knees, the black spade of his beard resting on his chest. He remains in this position for a minute and then begins to dress. Natasha wonders if he is married, has children; she wonders why he never asks her about herself. Her other regulars probe her constantly, fancy themselves white knights destined to rescue her from the profane life. Uncle Blue does not care about Natasha’s whereabouts when he is absent; he does not care what led her to this profession, whether she cries at night, whether she longs for a calm suburban marriage. A single problem lies knotted in his mind; all his thoughts are directed at unraveling its complexities. Any errors will lead to trouble, and Uncle Blue has worked too hard, for too long, to tolerate self-inflicted trouble. The stupidities and betrayals of other people can never be eliminated; that is the essential problem facing every great businessman. In the slop of this world, a realist seeks only to minimize damage. Tonight Uncle Blue will murder a man. He cannot afford to make any mistakes.
Six
Jakob is one of the greatest pedestrians in New York’s history. He angles through the crowd, slipping the jabs and hooks of oncoming walkers, ducking below tree branches, tiptoeing along the curb’s edge, dodging the scattered piles of dog shit, waiting for an opening, and then darting into the clear. Like all good citizens of the city, Jakob has learned to avert his eyes from the freaks of the street: the panhandling amputees, the palsied church-step dwellers, the deranged sideshows picking through the garbage.
He threads his way through the rushing mob outside the 72nd Street subway station. Past the turnstile, down the stairs, he finds the emptiest stretch of platform; when the train arrives he burrows into the scrum of the packed car, snatches a strap, and holds on as the train accelerates. Jakob’s tolerance for alcohol is minimal. The two beers he drank with LoBianco have left him disoriented, a woozy wedge driven between mind and body. He pictures himself, his true self , commanding this spastic Jakob android from a remote location. What is this body? he wonders. And why did I have to get it?
Sometimes when he wakes up in the morning the face he sees in the bathroom mirror seems unfamiliar and unhelpful. He will squint at this tired face like a man at a high school reunion trying to remember the name of a classmate vaguely associated with disappointing times. Jakob doesn’t like the body he’s got, but it’s more than that; he feels he doesn’t truly belong to this body. There was a mistake
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