The Bazaar of Bad Dreams

‘I’m not claiming I’m without sin. Not at all. Those who can say (and I suppose there are a few) that they have never sinned in deed or word can hardly say they’ve never sinned in thought, can they? The church covers every loophole. We hold out heaven, then make people understand they have no hope of achieving it without our help … because no one is without sin, and the wages of sin are death.

‘I suppose this makes me sound like an unbeliever, but raised as I was, unbelief is as impossible for me as levitation. Yet I understand the cozening nature of the bargain, and the psychological tricks believers use to ensure the prosperity of those beliefs. The pope’s fancy hat was not conferred on him by God, but by men and women paying theological blackmail money.

‘I can see you fidgeting, so I’ll come to the point. I want to commit a major sin before I die. A sin not of thought or word but of deed. This was on my mind – increasingly on my mind – before my stroke, but I thought it a frenzy that would pass. Now I see that it will not, because the idea has been with me more than ever during the last three years. But how great a sin can an old man stuck in a wheelchair commit, I asked myself? Surely not one very great, at least without being caught, and I would prefer not to be caught. Such grave matters as sin and forgiveness should remain between man and God.

‘Listening to you talk about your husband’s book and your financial situation, it occurred to me that I could sin by proxy. In fact, I could double my sin quotient, as it were, by making you my accessory.’

She spoke from a dry mouth. ‘I believe in wrongdoing, Winnie, but I don’t believe in sin.’

He smiled. It was a benevolent smile. Also unpleasant: sheep lips, wolf teeth. ‘That’s fine. But sin believes in you.’

‘I understand you think so … so why? It’s perverse!’

His smile widened. ‘Yes! That’s why! I want to know what it’s like to do something entirely against my nature. To need forgiveness for the act and more than the act. Do you know what doubles sin, Nora?’

‘No. I don’t go to church.’

‘What doubles sin is saying to yourself, I will do this because I know I can pray for forgiveness once it’s done. To say to yourself that you can have your cake and eat it, too. I want to know what being that deep in sin is like. I don’t want to wallow; I want to dive in over my head.’

‘And take me with you!’ She said it with real indignation.

‘Ah, but you don’t believe in sin, Nora. You just said so. From your standpoint, all I want is for you to get a little dirty. And risk arrest, I suppose, although the risk should be minor. For these things I will pay you two hundred thousand dollars. Over two hundred thousand.’

Her face and hands felt numb, as if she had just come in from a long walk in the cold. She would not do it, of course. What she would do was walk out of this house and get some fresh air. She wouldn’t quit, or at least not immediately, because she needed the job, but she would walk out. And if he fired her for deserting her post, let him. But first, she wanted to hear the rest. She wouldn’t admit to herself that she was tempted, but curious? Yes, that much she would own.

‘What is it you want me to do?’

Chad had lit another cigarette. She motioned with her fingers. ‘Give me a drag on that.’

‘Norrie, you haven’t smoked a cigarette in five—’

‘Give me a drag, I said.’

He passed the cigarette to her. She dragged deep, coughed the smoke out. Then she told him.

That night she lay awake late, into the small hours, quite sure he was sleeping, and why not? The decision had been made. She would tell Winnie no and never mention the idea again. Decision made; sleep follows.

Still, she wasn’t entirely surprised when he turned to her and said, ‘I can’t stop thinking about it.’

Nor could Nora. ‘I’d do it, you know. For us. If …’

Now they were face-to-face, inches apart. Close enough to taste each other’s breath. It was two o’clock in the morning.

The hour of conspiracy if there ever was one, she thought.

‘If?’

‘If I didn’t think it would taint our lives. Some stains don’t come out.’

‘It’s a moot question, Nor. We’ve decided. You play Sarah Palin and tell him thanks but no thanks for that bridge to nowhere. I’ll find a way to finish the book without his weird idea of a grant-in-aid.’

‘When? On your next unpaid leave? I don’t think so.’

‘It’s decided. He’s a crazy old man. The end.’ He rolled away from her.

Silence descended. Upstairs, Mrs Reston – whose picture belonged in the dictionary next to insomnia – walked back and forth. Somewhere, maybe in deepest darkest Gowanus, a siren wailed.

Fifteen minutes went by before Chad spoke to the end table and the digital clock, which now read 2:17A. ‘Also, we’d have to trust him for the money, and you can’t trust a man whose one remaining ambition in life is to commit a sin.’