Yok (33 page)

1. Meaning of Life: Repetition = life?

2. Knowledge Account: Don't think so much, it feels better that way.

3. Bank Account: Looks promising, could be better.

 

N
o one observing the scene from the landing in the ballroom would have believed it was the first time Vincent Hare was at a party where the written invitations had arrived two months in advance. He was dressed in a form-fitting midnight blue tuxedo with a white scarf loosely wrapped around his neck, and a pair of midnight blue patent-leather shoes that set him apart from the crowd. Nonchalantly he held his cup and saucer at waist level and laughed lightly without anyone having been funny.

But in reality he was greedily soaking up every detail, every second, every gesture, and every word he came across. He was 28 years, 105 days, 15 hours, and about 15 minutes old. In life as he had known it so far, nothing surprised or terrified him any longer, but the sound of the sand that ran through his mental hourglass sometimes thundered like an avalanche. That was why this social sphere that he had recently discovered, high above what he was used to, was so important. It was a sign that it was still possible to discover unknown pieces of the puzzle that perhaps might explain or tie together all the seemingly meaningless and disparate parts flowing around in Vincent's life.

Several hundred stuffed animals in evening clothes were gathered in the grandiose ballroom. Dinner had just been taken in the Hall of the Stars directly adjacent. Vincent had not been aware you could hire the National Historical Museum for private parties.

Jack Dingo suddenly showed up, with a broad grin on his face.

“You don't fool me,” Dingo said. “You were so turned on by that anaconda you got to sit next to, you hardly knew what you were eating. You were drooling, Vincent.”

“Where were you sitting?”

“Where I could see you,” Dingo replied. “I never would have brought you with me if I realized you couldn't behave in fine circles.”

They both laughed, because it was obvious that it was the dingo who didn't appear to belong among the party attendees. His glass claws lacked a counterpart in Mollisan Town and gave him a certain originality, but there was an expression in his eyes and around his mouth that neither the claws, a white shirt, or a white bow tie could conceal. The dingo's kind of avarice was not openly appreciated by the upper class.

“I see,” said Vincent. “These are the finer circles? If you knew where the tip of that anaconda's tail was during dinner, I doubt you would talk about fine circles. But I admit it was hard to concentrate on the food.”

Dingo laughed.

“Samuel!”

A plump dolphin went past with a large cognac glass in his fin. He stopped when he heard his name, and lit up when he saw Dingo.

“Jack!” he exclaimed. “Who let you in?”

“Samuel, say hello to Vincent,” said Dingo. “He's new here. Take care of him. Where'd you get the cognac?”

Dolphin nodded vaguely toward a corner of the ballroom where many stuffed animals appeared to be gathering, and Dingo went off to the bar. Dolphin stayed behind. A string quartet started playing on one of the balustrades. The music fell like gentle rain over the gala dresses and made them glitter.

“Well, now. Are you an associate of Jack's?”

“I assume that's the sort of thing I should deny?”

Dolphin laughed.

“I think you're right. We all know him, but no one lets on. If you're not at Rosenlind's level, of course,” said Dolphin, throwing out his fin to emphasize the abundance of the evening. “Because then you can associate with any riffraff at all, it just makes you interesting.”

“I really don't know Rosenlind except by reputation,” Vincent admitted. “He's said to be . . . terrifying?”

“To get anything in this life,” Dolphin replied, “takes will. That applies to Lion, it applies to you, and it applies to me. And the will must be strong . . . you know, it can be perceived as unpleasant. I assume Lion frightens some. But look, speak of the devil!”

Jack Dingo came walking with Lion Rosenlind in tow. Beforehand Vincent had done his homework and found out that Rosenlind, besides the boards he was on, not only owned the convenience store chain Monomart—as was generally known—but also for the past ten years controlled the manufacture of Volgas. This meant that he employed hundreds of thousands of stuffed animals in his industries, and that his power over Mollisan Town was considerable.

“Vincent Hare,” Lion Rosenlind called from a distance, as if they were old friends. “It is a true honor to meet you. Jack always talks about you. You're a painter, Jack tells me?”

“Well, I needed to pay the rent,” Vincent answered with a suitable smile, “so these days I work at Bombardelli.”

“An architect!” Rosenlind exclaimed. “Impressive. And how do you put up with that eccentric? Bombardelli is building a reputation. He's gifted, but he pushes the boundaries.”

“Who doesn't?” asked Dolphin.

All four of them laughed, Vincent without being sure why.

“It's true,” said Rosenlind. “We all live on the edge. But only Jack gets paid for it.”

Jack raised his glass and toasted them, but before Vincent had absorbed the thought that Rosenlind was one of Dingo's customers, the lion had disappeared to talk with more guests.

That night when he came home he took out his gray notebook, and wrote:

1. Meaning of Life: Can it have something to do with physical satisfaction? Why can't it be that simple? When did materialism become a sign of stupidity?

2. Knowledge Account: Smile. They like that.

3. Bank Account: Everything is relative.

L
et's drive down to Mindie,” said Lion Rosenlind, and he pronounced the name with emphasis on the first and last syllable, the way Vincent Hare had always done.

They were sitting in an anonymous but elegant office, and Vincent had just signed fifty-some documents without having any idea why or what he had signed. Rosenlind stood to the right behind Vincent, and on the other side stood an attorney who supplied Vincent with papers. The last time he had asked what he was signing, and Rosenlind had given him a long, complicated explanation with terms and time perspectives that soon bored Vincent. To run a business in Mollisan Town apparently required piles of permits and signatures. If Vincent had heard right, between the last time he signed piles of documents—a couple of months ago—and this time, he had purchased several chemical industries. Today he sold them again. But he wasn't sure, it could be something else, he didn't really care, he was happy to lend his name. A week ago Rosenlind bought a car for Vincent to thank him. Vincent, who knew that nothing was free in this city, was still wondering, however, what would be asked in return, because he doubted that these signatures could correspond to the black Volga GTI with brown leather seats he was now driving.

The attorney excused himself, threw together his documents, sorted them in plastic pockets, and set them in his briefcase. Then he quickly departed. As Vincent understood it, Lion Rosenlind had offices in Tourquai as well as Amberville and Lanceheim, anonymous corner rooms at the end of long corridors he seldom seemed to visit. Instead of work he devoted himself to the things he liked: sports and cars, food and females. Rosenlind's successes had given him a unique position. There was a rumor that the mayor of Mollisan Town had the habit of confirming major decisions with Rosenlind, because the lion controlled such a large part of the city's industries.

For that reason it was fascinating, thought Vincent, that the powerful multibillionaire found such childish joy in investigating Yok.

“Now, let's drive down to Mindie,” Rosenlind repeated in Vincent's accent.

Together they sat in the backseat of one of the lion's limousines, and Vincent had to provide an address where the chauffeur would drive them and drop them off.

The more run-down the neighborhoods Vincent took Rosenlind to, the greater the billionaire's delight was. In Mindie, that was a simple task. You only needed to walk a couple of blocks before you stumbled across traces of prostitution and crime. Rosenlind could spend long afternoons in brothels where Vincent never would have set his paw, or else he smoked opium at bars Vincent had passed for twenty years without going in. The anonymity that Yok offered the disguised billionaire liberated him. He called it his “breathing hole,” and Vincent did not question anything; why should he?

At regular intervals they changed roles, however, and Rosenlind became Vincent's cicerone in those parts of the city that were the opposite of Yok. The lion presented his unknown friend as one of the most interesting contemporary young architects (though Vincent made it clear he worked as a project manager and nothing more). Vincent got to rub elbows with the rich and powerful in Mollisan Town. The contrast to the afternoon outings in Mindie could not have been greater. Usually they ended up in restaurants and nightclubs, but on a few occasions they went to private parties in one of the enormous houses at Swarwick Park or out in Le Vezinot.

“Are you paying attention?” Lion laughed every time he noticed how impressed Vincent was.

Vincent never knew exactly what he meant.

Before those evenings out, Rosenlind sometimes bought exclusive clothes for him.

“But I already have a dark suit,” Vincent might object.

“Unfortunately you can't get away with homemade jackets in Tourquai.” Rosenlind laughed, and Vincent felt ashamed.

At the same time he understood that he was doing the lion a service. The rich predator liked feeling generous, and he liked buying expensive but clearly meaningless objects best of all. Six months after Rosenlind bought back the chemical industries, a couple of restaurants were transferred to Vincent for tax purposes, Rosenlind's attorneys explained, and before the signing of these documents, Rosenlind stopped by Grand Divino and bought a ballpoint pen that cost the equivalent of two years of Vincent's salary. It was idiotic.

“So you realize how important these signatures are.” The lion laughed.

A week later Vincent lost the pen. It happened at a nightclub where a young polar bear swiped it after writing his phone number on Vincent's business card. Vincent went to confess the loss to the billionaire.

“Easy come, easy go,” said Rosenlind, when Vincent suggested they should report the incident to the police.

After such nights, bewildering and crazy, when Vincent at most managed to get a couple hours' sleep, it was sometimes hard to readjust to civilian life, to the everyday routines of work and to meeting stuffed animals whose lives were limited by time and resources. The sand was pressing sluggishly through the narrow waist of the hourglass.

T
he office layout at Bombardelli & Partners suited Vincent. He considered the architectural firm's diligent employees his audience. He arrived in midmorning, long after the rain had ceased, and never tired of making his rounds among the desks. He smelled of expensive cologne and had a colorful handkerchief in the breast pocket of his jacket. He laughed often and loud. Vincent made a point of remembering whose mother-in-law had been visiting, who had been at the dentist with his cub, who had read
Clouds over Meek Street,
and who was brooding about getting a divorce. He knew what projects they were working on and whom they would have lunch with. He confirmed, questioned, and provoked, depending on individual and need, and there was a single purpose for this daily display: to prove to himself that he could. Vincent's longing after the nights with Lion Rosenlind's friends did not reduce his striving to become one of society's small, insignificant cogs, and perhaps in that way give existence a meaning. Rosenlind's life would never be Vincent's anyway, not even if he had access to the same money and the same power. The fact that Vincent could dress up as one of Rosenlind's equals for a shorter or longer period was another matter. But making yourself blind and deaf, which Vincent realized was a prerequisite for Rosenlind's kind of life, would be impossible in the long run.

The decision to leave Jack Dingo and Jack's whole circus behind to instead become an ordinary wage slave still seemed reasonable after a couple of years. Reality, Vincent knew, rested in the eyes of the surroundings, and he exploited that. Through the personnel at Bombardelli he was reminded that he had made the right decision, and that he had changed. At night, in solitude or with stuffed animals who only saw themselves, the transformation was less apparent, and that alone was a reason to drag himself off to the office every day. On the other hand he had a harder time taking the work itself seriously. As project manager—already after eighteen months he had dropped the title of assistant—it was about selling ideas. To start with, the firm's ideas for the customer, and then the customer's ideas back to the firm. The latter was always harder, because the customer had less prestige than architects as far as architecture was concerned.

O
f all the stuffed animals who worked at Bombardelli & Partners, Vincent Hare remained eager to work with Maria Goat. Out of habit he courted the females he came in contact with, something he had started doing in his late teens. He continued that behavior as he got older, and practice made perfect. But Goat in particular gave him no response. This made his interest grow even further.

Vincent Hare was 30 years, 55 days, 4 hours, and about 10 minutes old when Rattlesnake Bombardelli formed the group that would work on Samuel Dolphin's house, a group led by Goat. She was on an immediate collision course with her principal, Samuel Dolphin, however, and only a couple of weeks into the project found herself in the midst of a moral and professional dilemma. For several days she and the stuffed animals on her team discussed the problem. They often stood around Goat's desk dissecting the question, looking for different perspectives and angles of attack, but Vincent understood the core of the problem as simple. Either you let the customer—in this case, Dolphin—get his way, or else you realized that the architectural concept you—in this case, Goat—had could not be maintained. It had been thanks to Vincent that Dolphin came into contact with Bombardelli. On an intellectual level Vincent understood how Goat was thinking, but in practice he understood that the only thing was to do as Dolphin wanted.