exasperated huff. ‘And there you go again, shrugging. Stop shrugging, shrugger! Answer my question. Why the stunted musical growth?’
I start to shrug and then stop myself, with some difficulty. How can I possibly explain this to her in words? The slow death of Quixote. The abandoning of quests, the surrendering of desires, the settling in and settling down that is the inevitable fate of the Dead.
‘We don’t . . . think . . . new things,’ I begin, straining to kick through my short-sheeted diction. ‘I . . . find things . . . sometimes. But we don’t . . . seek.’
‘Really,’ Julie says. ‘Well, that’s a fucking tragedy.’ She continues to dig through my records, but her tone starts to escalate as she speaks. ‘You don’t think about new things? You don’t “seek”? What’s that even mean? You don’t seek what? Music? Music is life ! It’s physical emotion – you can touch it! It’s neon ecto-energy sucked out of spirits and switched into sound waves for your ears to swallow. Are you telling me, what, that it’s boring? You don’t have time for it?’
There is nothing I can say to this. I find myself praying to the ghastly mouth of the open sky that Julie never changes. That she never wakes up one day to find herself older and wiser.
‘Anyway, you’ve still got some good stuff in here,’ she says, letting her indignation deflate. ‘Great stuff, really. Here, let’s do this one again. Can’t go wrong with Frank.’ She puts on a record and returns to her pad thai. ‘The Lady is a Tramp’ fills the plane’s cabin, and she gives me a crooked little smile. ‘My theme song,’ she says, and stuffs her mouth full of noodles.
Out of morbid curiosity, I pull one off her plate and chew it. There is no taste at all. It’s like imaginary food, like chewing air. I turn my head and spit it into my palm. Julie doesn’t notice. She seems far away again, and I watch the colours and shapes of her thought-film flickering behind her face. After a few minutes, she swallows a bite and looks up at me.
‘R,’ she says in a tone of casual curiosity, ‘who did you kill?’
I stiffen. The music fades out of my awareness.
‘In that high-rise. Before you saved me. I saw the blood on your face. Whose was it?’
I just look at her. Why does she have to ask me this. Why can’t her memories fade to black like mine. Why can’t she just live with me alone in the dark, swimming in the abyss of inked-out history.
‘I just need to know who it was.’ Her expression betrays nothing. Her eyes are locked on mine, unblinking.
‘No one,’ I mumble. ‘Some . . . kid.’
‘There’s this theory that you guys eat brains because you get to relive the person’s life. True?’
I shrug, trying not to squirm. I feel like a toddler caught finger-painting the walls. Or killing dozens of people.
‘Who was it?’ she presses. ‘Don’t you remember?’
I consider lying. I remember a few faces from that room; I could roll the dice and just pick one, probably some random recruit she didn’t even know, and she would let it go and never bring it up again. But I can’t do it. I can’t lie to her any more than I can spit out the indigestible truth. I’m trapped.
Julie lets her eyes auger into me for a long minute, then she falters. She looks down at the stained airplane carpet. ‘Was it Berg?’ she offers, so quietly she’s almost talking to herself. ‘The kid with the acne? I bet it was Berg. That guy was a dick. He called Nora a mulatto and he was staring at my ass that entire salvage. Which Perry didn’t even notice, of course. If it was Berg, I’m almost glad you got him.’
I try to catch her gaze to make sense of this reversal, but now she’s the one avoiding eye contact. ‘Anyway,’ she says, ‘whoever killed Perry . . . I just want you to know I don’t blame them for it.’
I tense again. ‘You . . . don’t?’
‘No. I mean, I think I get it. You don’t have a choice, right? And to be
I start to shrug and then stop myself, with some difficulty. How can I possibly explain this to her in words? The slow death of Quixote. The abandoning of quests, the surrendering of desires, the settling in and settling down that is the inevitable fate of the Dead.
‘We don’t . . . think . . . new things,’ I begin, straining to kick through my short-sheeted diction. ‘I . . . find things . . . sometimes. But we don’t . . . seek.’
‘Really,’ Julie says. ‘Well, that’s a fucking tragedy.’ She continues to dig through my records, but her tone starts to escalate as she speaks. ‘You don’t think about new things? You don’t “seek”? What’s that even mean? You don’t seek what? Music? Music is life ! It’s physical emotion – you can touch it! It’s neon ecto-energy sucked out of spirits and switched into sound waves for your ears to swallow. Are you telling me, what, that it’s boring? You don’t have time for it?’
There is nothing I can say to this. I find myself praying to the ghastly mouth of the open sky that Julie never changes. That she never wakes up one day to find herself older and wiser.
‘Anyway, you’ve still got some good stuff in here,’ she says, letting her indignation deflate. ‘Great stuff, really. Here, let’s do this one again. Can’t go wrong with Frank.’ She puts on a record and returns to her pad thai. ‘The Lady is a Tramp’ fills the plane’s cabin, and she gives me a crooked little smile. ‘My theme song,’ she says, and stuffs her mouth full of noodles.
Out of morbid curiosity, I pull one off her plate and chew it. There is no taste at all. It’s like imaginary food, like chewing air. I turn my head and spit it into my palm. Julie doesn’t notice. She seems far away again, and I watch the colours and shapes of her thought-film flickering behind her face. After a few minutes, she swallows a bite and looks up at me.
‘R,’ she says in a tone of casual curiosity, ‘who did you kill?’
I stiffen. The music fades out of my awareness.
‘In that high-rise. Before you saved me. I saw the blood on your face. Whose was it?’
I just look at her. Why does she have to ask me this. Why can’t her memories fade to black like mine. Why can’t she just live with me alone in the dark, swimming in the abyss of inked-out history.
‘I just need to know who it was.’ Her expression betrays nothing. Her eyes are locked on mine, unblinking.
‘No one,’ I mumble. ‘Some . . . kid.’
‘There’s this theory that you guys eat brains because you get to relive the person’s life. True?’
I shrug, trying not to squirm. I feel like a toddler caught finger-painting the walls. Or killing dozens of people.
‘Who was it?’ she presses. ‘Don’t you remember?’
I consider lying. I remember a few faces from that room; I could roll the dice and just pick one, probably some random recruit she didn’t even know, and she would let it go and never bring it up again. But I can’t do it. I can’t lie to her any more than I can spit out the indigestible truth. I’m trapped.
Julie lets her eyes auger into me for a long minute, then she falters. She looks down at the stained airplane carpet. ‘Was it Berg?’ she offers, so quietly she’s almost talking to herself. ‘The kid with the acne? I bet it was Berg. That guy was a dick. He called Nora a mulatto and he was staring at my ass that entire salvage. Which Perry didn’t even notice, of course. If it was Berg, I’m almost glad you got him.’
I try to catch her gaze to make sense of this reversal, but now she’s the one avoiding eye contact. ‘Anyway,’ she says, ‘whoever killed Perry . . . I just want you to know I don’t blame them for it.’
I tense again. ‘You . . . don’t?’
‘No. I mean, I think I get it. You don’t have a choice, right? And to be
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