The Bazaar of Bad Dreams

‘Bill Anderson, isn’t it?’ The man goes behind the desk and sits down. There is no offer to shake hands.

‘Andrews.’

‘Right. And I’m Harris. Here you are again, Andrews.’

Given all Bill’s research on dying, this comment actually makes sense. And it’s a relief. As long as he doesn’t have to come back as a dung beetle, or something. ‘So it’s reincarnation? Is that the deal?’

Isaac Harris sighs. ‘You always ask the same thing, and I always give the same answer: not really.’

‘I’m dead, aren’t I?’

‘Do you feel dead?’

‘No, but I saw the white light.’

‘Oh yes, the famous white light. There you were and here you are. Wait a minute, just hold the phone.’

Harris breezes through the papers on his desk, doesn’t find what he wants, and starts opening drawers. From one of them he takes a few more folders and selects one. He opens it, flips a page or two, and nods. ‘Just refreshing myself a bit. Investment banker, aren’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Wife and three kids? Two sons, one daughter?’

‘Correct.’

‘Apologies. I have a couple of hundred pilgrims, and it’s hard to keep them straight. I keep meaning to put these folders in some sort of order, but that’s really a secretarial job, and since they’ve never provided me with one …’

‘Who’s they?’

‘No idea. All communications come via the tube.’ He taps it. The tube sways, then stills. ‘Runs on compressed air. Latest thing.’

Bill picks up the folders on the client’s chair and looks at the man behind the desk, eyebrows raised.

‘Just put them on the floor,’ Harris says. ‘That’ll do for now. One of these days I really am going to get organized. If there are days. Probably are – nights, too – but who can say for sure? No windows in here, as you will have noticed. Also no clocks.’

Bill sits down. ‘Why call me a pilgrim, if it’s not reincarnation?’

Harris leans back and laces his hands behind his neck. He looks up at the pneumatic tube, which probably was the latest thing at some time or other. Say around 1911, although Bill supposes such things might still have been around in 1956.

Harris shakes his head and chuckles, although not in an amused way. ‘If you only knew how wearisome you guys become. According to the file, this is our fifteenth visit.’

‘I’ve never been here in my life,’ Bill says. He considers this. ‘Except it’s not my life. Is it? It’s my afterlife.’

‘Actually, it’s mine. You’re the pilgrim, not me. You and the other bozos who parade in and out of here. You’ll use one of the doors and go. I stay. There’s no bathroom here, because I no longer have to perform toilet functions. There’s no bedroom, because I no longer have to sleep. All I do is sit around and visit with you traveling bozos. You come in, you ask the same questions, and I give the same answers. That’s my afterlife. Sound exciting?’

Bill, who has encountered all the theological ins and outs during his final research project, decides he had the right idea while he was still in the hall. ‘You’re talking about purgatory.’

‘Oh, no doubt. The only question I have is how long I’ll be staying. I’d like to tell you I’ll eventually go mad if I can’t move on, but I don’t think I can do that any more than I can take a shit or a nap. I know my name means nothing to you, but we’ve discussed this before – not every time you show up, but on several occasions.’ He waves an arm with enough force to cause some of the invoices tacked on the wall to flutter. ‘This is – or was, I’m not sure which is actually correct – my earthly office.’

‘In nineteen eleven?’

‘Just so. I’d ask if you know what a shirtwaist is, Bill, but since I know you don’t, I’ll tell you: a woman’s blouse. At the turn of the century, I and my partner, Max Blanck, owned a business called the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory. Profitable business, but the women who worked there were a large pain in the keister. Always sneaking out to smoke, and – this was worse – stealing stuff, which they would put in their purses or tuck up under their skirts. So we locked the doors to keep them in during their shifts, and searched them on their way out. Long story short, the damned place caught fire one day. Max and I escaped by going up to the roof and down the fire escape. Many of the women were not so lucky. Although, let’s be honest and admit there’s lots of blame to go around. Smoking in the factory was strictly verboten, but plenty of them did it anyway, and it was a cigarette that started the blaze. Fire marshal said so. Max and I were tried for manslaughter and acquitted.’

Bill recalls the fire extinguisher in the hall, with Better late than never printed above it. He thinks: You were found guilty in the retrial, Mr Harris, or you wouldn’t be here. ‘How many women died?’

‘A hundred and forty-six,’ Harris says, ‘and I regret every one, Mr Anderson.’