The Caterpillar King (19 page)

“Thank you,” I said. I set the container
down. With the utmost care, I lifted the rim of the glass case up,
revealing Tika. Then I put the battery right up to her body, so she
was almost cradling it. Tiny sparks shot between the two. And ever
so slowly, Tika opened her eyes.

“Where am I?” she said.

“Oh no,” I said. It hadn’t occurred to me
before, but there was a possibility she’d lost her memory, too. “Do
you know who I am?”

She studied me for a moment. “Yeah, I do,”
she said. “You are the guy I bit.”

I laughed. “That’s true,” I said. “Don’t
worry, we’re safe now. We’re in a ditch, but we can leave whenever
we want. But actually…I might need to visit an old friend on the
way out.”

I went back to the witch with my second gold
coin.

“I’d like to trade this coin for a net,” I
said. “I know someone who could really use a good night of sleep. I
think it’ll do wonders for his mood.”

The witch shrugged and took my coin. Again,
she closed her hand around it, and when she opened it, she revealed
a scrunched-up net. She handed it to me.

“Great,” I said. Then I got ready to head
out with Tika and Old Guy.

“Is that all?” said the witch. “You still
have another gold coin.”

“Hmm…” I said. I didn’t want to be greedy,
but there was one thing I really wanted. I went back to the witch
and handed her the third gold coin.

“I’d like a memory,” I said. “A memory of my
mother.”

The witch paused, and then handed back the
coin. “I cannot do that,” she said.

“Why not?” I said. “A memory is a
thing.”

“I cannot do that because you have no
memories of your mother and
I
have no memories of her. And
there’s no way to get new memories. She’s dead. She died when you
were born.”

“Oh,” I said. “Well.”

A few minutes passed, with none of us
speaking. I hadn’t expected to find my mother, but I hadn’t
expected this, either. I’d come all this way, looking for an
answer, and now I’d gotten one. My mother was gone, and as far as I
could see, it was my fault. If I hadn’t been born…everything
might’ve been different. My mom might’ve been here today, instead
of me.

“You should not blame yourself,” said
Tika.

“What?” I said.

She looked up into my eyes. “It will not
change anything,” she said. “I know it is hard. But you cannot
blame yourself for what is out of your control.” She paused. “Maybe
this is the way it was always supposed to be. Some of us are never
meant to exist in the same time, in the same place. Some of us are
not meant to be together.”

Tika gave me a sad smile.

“Yeah,” I said. “Maybe.”

So this was how it was going to end: no
mother, no memories, no hope. But then…I
did
have an
idea.

“Make one up,” I said to the witch. “Can you
do that?” I handed my last gold coin to her.

“What?” she said.

“Can you give me a memory with my mother? It
doesn’t have to be real.”

The witch didn’t know what to think. She
examined the gold coin, and then looked back at me.

“All right,” she said. “That is a
possibility. But what exactly do you want?”

For a few moments, I thought about it. “I
want it to be a very old memory,” I said. “That’s what I would
like.”

The witch nodded, and then she motioned for
me to come closer. She placed her hands on my temples, and her
palms started to heat up. I closed my eyes, and I could feel
someone’s warmth right next to me. When I opened my eyes, I
realized I was a baby, and my mother was holding me. She rocked me
gently, almost as if she were putting me to sleep. Then she leaned
her head in, her lips barely grazing my ear.

“I’ll always be here for you,” she
whispered.

She kept rocking me, and I closed my eyes
again. I fell asleep just like that, safe in her arms.

23.

Galla resigned. Not a leave of absence, not
a vacation- she simply quit. Claimed she was gravely ill. Told her
she might be right, giving up a salary like that. Now my income is
our sole income. Meaning we have nothing. We’re hemorrhaging, but
hemorrhages only last till the blood runs out. God only knows how
long that will be. I’ve grown accustomed to this lifestyle, and I’m
not about to toss it away. Said as much to Galla.

“But your art,” she said. “The show tomorrow
will be a success, don’t you think? Some of the pieces are…well,
they’re not dreadful.”

Understated, naturally, but she’s right.
Serious boon of productivity from Tate these past two weeks. I’ve
begun displaying his pieces around the house, turning our living
space into a pseudo-gallery. In the dining room, above the kitchen
counter, even in the bathroom- paintings and more paintings.
Centerpiece is high above the entryway. His first ever work. Looks
lovely up there, it really does.

Not sure how much he’s got left, though. In
an unfortunate twist, Tate has actually taken quite ill. The
universe has a wicked sense of humor, don’t doubt it for a second.
The boy’s been puking up all week. Seems to be getting
progressively worse. Could his recent art binge have pushed him
over the edge? Anything’s possible, I suppose. Weak or not, his
voice never seems to give out. Can hear him shrieking in the
bathroom right now.

Galla comes to me, concerned.

“He’s about to get sick again,” she says.
“With father coming, no less.”

Oh yes, forgot to mention. Galla’s deception
has had its own unfortunate byproducts. Daddy’s decided to stop by
for a visit to check on his little girl. Galla knows how to create
a mess. That much is undeniable.

“Let’s move Tate to the box,” I say. “Don’t
need him clogging the drain, after all.”

The box was a stroke of genius. Got tired of
the boy defecating wherever he pleased, but couldn’t just sit him
up on the pot. He’d fall right in. Inspiration struck in the form
of a cat. One afternoon, saw a little black stray dance across the
yard.
Treat Tate like an animal.
Of course. Never had a pet
before, but seem to be quite a few obvious parallels. If cats can
be trained to use the litter box, so could Tate. Least that’s how
the thinking went. Came up with a basic reward system- i.e.,
biscuit for a proper poo/piss in the box. Results have been mixed.
Rewards lose some of their effectiveness when they’re puked back
up.

Galla brings Tate to the dining room, lays
him in the sand pit. Striking how thin they’ve both gotten. Tate’s
shrinking, no bigger than the day he was born. Same could be said
for Galla. Reckon she hasn’t been this size since primary school.
Still looks good…but almost in spite of it all. At a certain point,
thinness becomes pitiful. She’s well on her way.

Rather than continue the expulsions, Tate
falls asleep instantly. That’s a new one.

“Galla,” I say. “Have you considered it? He
needs…something. Help.”

“I take him to a hospital, they’ll take him
from me,” she says. “Can’t risk that. Besides, he’s got the flu,
that’s all.”

Trying to be gentle with my opinion, but I’m
convinced Galla’s in the wrong.

“Ever see what happens when an old man gets
the flu? He dies. The weak, the infirm…they can’t handle the stress
of illness. And whether you want to admit it or not, the boy’s
infirm.”

She doesn’t say anything.

“Maybe he’s not meant for this world,” I
say.

“Father’ll be here in an hour,” she says.
“We’ve got plenty to do.”

Have to admit, she’s right about that.

I should be tidying up, Galla should be
looking for a place to hide Tate. Instead, we slip into the
bedroom. Been doing this fairly often, in spite of any exhaustion.
Always waste the most time when you’ve got the least to spare.

Whole Non-Affair has taken a bizarre turn.
Seems to have piqued Galla’s interest in my experience with other
women. “This is the best you’ve had, isn’t it?” she’ll say. “Oh, no
one else does this for you, do they?” Never directly asked me about
my supposed indiscretions, but things are clearly heading that
way.

Today, she strips me down, then out and out
says, “Call me Sabonne.”

“You sure you don’t-” I say.

“Call me Sabonne,” she repeats. No mercy in
her voice. None at all.

“Does she do this for you?” says Galla.
“What about this?”

Wouldn’t be with you if she did, I want to
say.

Galla pauses the action, speaks. “We had a
meeting a few days back. Remind me what happened.”

“It went well,” I say. “Really
fantastic.”

She leans down and hisses in my ear.
“
Details
.”

So I go into the whole story: the dirty
hotel sheets, the mop, the razor. Must admit, it got a bit strange
towards the end. Went on like this for far too long. But to be
frank, I wasn’t really keen on pretending at all. Was much more in
the mood for something…real.

Afterwards, lie in bed with the name Sabonne
buzzing in my ear like a mosquito. Want to swat it away, but can’t.
Galla won’t allow it, either.

“The gallery show-” she starts.

Feed her a line about preparations I’ve been
making. Best part is, it’s actually true. My art
is
going
quite well. Been totally wrapped up in the portrait of the girl.
Days have become triangular: Galla-Tate-Art. No time for food or
sleep now. Well into my final canvas. Hidden it in this very room,
in the closet. Can nearly feel its presence through the doors. It’s
on the smaller side- maybe half a meter wide and a bit shorter than
that. Too often vastness overshadows technique. Leo had it right
with
La Joconde.
Starting to see my portrait in similar
terms. The feminine mystery, the barren landscape haunting the
background. Doubt Da Vinci used a toothbrush to create the effect,
but that’s another matter entirely. Feel like my heart’s with
Galla, but my soul’s with the portrait.

Can’t stay in bed any longer. Art will have
to wait, because father surely won’t. Throw the covers off, then
rerobe. The house’ll be a wreck, that much is settled.

“Where do we put
him
?” I say.

“He’s exhausted,” says Galla. “Move the box
in here. He’ll sleep right through it.”

“You’re sure?” I say.

“Not at all,” she says.

“And you can’t just have a nice lunch out of
the house?”

“I’m ill, remember?” she says.
“
Gravely
ill.” She gives a weak cough. “Can’t go out in this
state.”

Glimmer of a smile on her lips. Starting to
think she wants to be found out. Stand at the edge of a cliff, and
you’ll feel the urge to jump. There’s a word for it in German, I’m
sure. Perhaps she doesn’t have the strength to turn Tate into the
hospital herself. But if the old man reports us, well, there’s
nothing we can do about it, is there?

Galla takes Tate into the bedroom, and shuts
him in there. Not a second too soon, either. Knock at the door,
followed by a ring. One or the other’s plenty, for God’s sake. At
least give us a moment to respond before composing a symphony.
Galla’s still in the bedroom, so the duty falls on me. Our visitor
is now resting a hand on the bell. Get to the door, open it. He
holds the bell for an extra beat. Haven’t seen the man in a decade,
already feel the urge to slaughter him.

“Oh good. Was worried when no one answered,”
he says. “Thought Galla might’ve…well, you know.”

“Don’t despair,” I say. “It won’t be long
now.”

Meant it as sarcasm, but it sails right over
the old bird’s head.

“Right you are,” he says. Claps me on the
shoulder, too. What a fool.

First impression: he’s let himself go. Used
to at least
appear
healthy, vibrant, and so on, but now he’s
lost weight. Too much weight. The wrinkles show more clearly,
assorted body parts have started to droop. Wonder if he was Galla’s
inspiration or vice versa. Neither looks well.

Get to the dining room table, where Galla’s
waiting with a pen and paper. Odd, but I ignore it. All are seated.
Galla and father have a bit of a staredown, and I notice that
Daddy’s got in earplugs. Suppose the old bird’s completely lost it.
Conversation should be near impossible. His hearing wasn’t all that
good to begin with.

Father starts up first. “House looks
lovely,” he says.

Galla nods. Haven’t seen her this quiet in
ages.

“Things weren’t so bad…were they?” says
Daddy. “You made a brilliant employee. Valuable, really.”

Galla takes the pen and paper, scribbles
something down. I get on the edge of my seat and peer over. It
reads,
Sorry, but I’m really very sick
. She passes it to
father, who inspects it.

“What in God’s name is going on?” I whisper
to Galla.

“Father’s got his earplugs in. Pretends he
can’t hear anyone.” She rolls her eyes. “Says he’s “living proof”
of the product’s effectiveness. He won’t respond unless he’s got a
written statement. Of course, he can hear all this, but he’ll act
as if he can’t. He’ll even repeat things we’ve already said, just
to show how little he’s heard. He’s mad.”

Daddy suddenly looks up at me. “You’re
wondering why a man like me would wear these interminably, aren’t
you?” he says. “It’s very simple. These earplugs are the
single-most effective product on the earth. I’m living proof.
Benefits me two-fold, though. When people have to write out
everything they want to say, they’re much more selective. Cuts out
all the nonsense. Gets right to the heart of the matter.

“Not a bad idea,” I say.

“Not a bad idea, eh?” he says. Gives me a
cheeky grin. Growing tired of this game rather quickly. I tempt
fate, make a few vulgar comments about his daughter. The old bird
doesn’t even acknowledge me. Impressive.