An Absence of Light

“So,” he said, as if everything had been explained, “I want to make sure Graver stays away from me. You want to have a little bite of my business so you can make a load of money. It’s clear to me that we can serve each other well.”

Kalatis stopped talking as they passed other night strollers, all talking softly as though viewing art from out of the darkness was an act of inherent holiness.

“What I propose is this,” Kalatis resumed. “For the next five days I want to know immediately if Graver learns of my existence. After five days other arrangements will come into play, and it will not be so important. Now, if you do this… I will make it possible for you to retire… with a generous ‘pension.’”

As they continued walking, Kalatis reached into the breast pocket of his jacket, took out a small paper booklet, and handed it to Burtell.

“This is a Belgium bank account in your name. It is empty now. At the end of five days, if you have done as you were asked, it will contain five hundred thousand American dollars. Only three people in the world will know about it. Me, the Belgium bank officer with whom I opened the account, and yourself. After I make the deposit, only one person in the world will be able to touch it-you.”

Burtell was stunned. Unaware of the act of walking, he could only feel the weight of the little paper booklet in his hand, as heavy as thirty pieces of silver.

“I doubt that’s likely to happen,” he said.

“What?”

Burtell realized his mistake. “Graver-it’s not likely he’ll get that far in the investigation.”

“Fine, but if he does I want to know about it.”

Burtell was still wary. He thought he hadn’t yet seen the whole picture. Kalatis wanted something more for his five hundred thousand dollars.

‘This is a lot of money for such a small service. Just a telephone call,” Burtell said.

They walked a little farther together before Kalatis said:

“Well, some men think betrayal is no small thing.”

Burtell’s face burned. It was like Kalatis to be so cruel as to refuse to use euphemisms. He could have let it pass, but he wanted Burtell to know, to be reminded just what it was he was doing for his money. Burtell could live with it, but he hated Kalatis for being the kind of man who would go out of his way to corrupt another man, who would entice him with a fortune for only a moment’s effort, and then when the man took the bait, ashamed and groveling, would pull his head back and shove a mirror in front of his face. There was something carious at the very core of Kalatis’s dark life, something that brought out the worst in people who associated with him. Art Tisler had discovered that with tragic results.

Chapter 27

The dense foliage of the overarching trees that covered the serpentine street where Arnette lived reflected Graver’s headlights so that it seemed as if he was being drawn into a coiling green tunnel, a meander that led to the Sibyl’s cavern. If ever he needed a necromancer it was now, someone like Arnette to summon Tisler’s spirit for an interview or, failing that, to summon the next best thing, his former thoughts from whence he had locked them in a timeless silence, embalmed to perfection inside another kind of memory, not of man, but of man’s making, hundreds of thousands of words in a few minuscule coffins of silicone.

This time Mona Isaza answered the door. Graver had missed her earlier that day, so they embraced in the dark screened room as he had embraced Arnette earlier, and Mona called him “bah-BEE” and kissed him on the neck. She smelled, as always, of cooking, of something oniony and of the cornmeal masa she used almost every meal to make fresh tortillas. Mona was about the same height as Arnette, though heavier, despite which she was in many ways the more feminine and graceful of the two women. She was pure Zoque Indian from southern Oaxaca, with the finely defined lips, heavy eyebrows, and black eyes that were often seen in the sculptures and drawings of Francisco Zuniga’s beloved Indian women. Whereas Arnette wore her hair in one thick braid, Mona wore two long ones, each falling in front of her shoulders over heavy bosoms. She customarily wore simple, cotton dresses, thin from long use, as if she were a poor campesino.

“The Lady wants you next door,” Mona said, smiling and perhaps mocking just a little bit the imperious manner Arnette sometimes employed to control the cadre of eccentrics who worked for her. Closing the door behind them, she and Graver entered the twilight of Arnette’s living room. “It has been such a while since I have seen you,” she said softly, unhurriedly. “I was sorry to miss you yesterday.”