Fungus of the Heart Page 2

  “Thank you, sire.”

  I shoot him in the foot. “Don’t steal from me again.”

  He groans. “Yes, sire.”

  “Give me the address, then get yourself cleaned up.”

  “Yes, sire.”

  From there, I drive back into the city, to a little shack in the Smokestacks. Of course, I put on my respirator before leaving the car.

  “Who are you?” the man at the door says.

  “Frank Edge,” I say. “Adeline was my rag.”

  “Who’s Adeline?”

  “Maria.”

  “Oh. I see. Come in.” He sounds like he’s about to cry, but he doesn’t.

  I enter the transition room.

  “We’ll have to wait here a minute,” he says, over the sound of rushing air.

  “You fucked with the wrong guy,” I say.

  “You’ll have to speak up.”

  After a long silence, the man opens the second door, and I enter a small world of vulgarities. I shudder.

  These people exist at the bottom of the social Pyramid for a reason.

  They don’t see themselves as separate from animals, so they cut holes in their floor for plants to grow out of. And their material objects aren’t unified by a common theme or idea.

  This space speaks only of chaos and neglect.

  I feel like tearing this place apart with my bare hands, but for now, I lean against the wall and cross my arms.

  “You can take off your mask,” the man says, removing his own. “This place is sealed tight.”

  I don’t move.

  At this point, the wife approaches me, holding a baby. “Who are you?”

  “Frank Edge,” I say. “Adeline was my rag.”

  “Who’s Adeline?”

  “Maria,” the man says.

  “I know you have her,” I say. “Where is she?”

  “She belongs here,” the wife says. “You have no right to keep her body.”

  “I have every right.” This is when I take out my knife. “You stole from me, and now I can punish anyone in your household.” I point my blade at the baby. “Maybe I’ll decide she’s the one who masterminded the operation.”

  “You can’t do that.”

  “Of course I can. I just need to decide if I should take a finger or toe.”

  The wife yelps, in a strange, unattractive way.

  “I told you,” the man says, grabbing his wife’s arm. “I told you to leave her body alone, but you wouldn’t listen. I knew this would happen.”

  “Don’t blame her,” I say. “You’re the man of this household, and you should’ve stopped her from disobeying you.”

  “Please don’t hurt our baby,” the wife says. “We’ll do anything.”

  “I know.” And I put the knife away. “But lucky for you, I’m in a benevolent mood. So I’ll leave you unharmed, and I’ll give you her body.”

  “Thank you, sire,” says the man.

  “Thank you, sire,” says the wife.

  And I say, “I’d like some time alone with your daughter before I go. Where is she?”

  “Behind the bed,” the man says, pointing. As if I don’t know what a bed is.

  “What are you waiting for?” I say. “Go wait outside.”

  They stare at me for a while, then put on their respirators.

  “Don’t touch her,” the wife says. “Please.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do,” I say.

  After they’re gone, I pull the white sheet off Adeline’s body, and I almost don’t recognize her. Not because she’s dead. Because her hair’s braided, and she’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt.

  She looks so ordinary.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, and I’m not sure why. Maybe I’m sorry she’s dead. Or maybe I’m apologizing for never appreciating her enough when she was alive.

  Out of all the Adelines who serviced me in my lifetime, she was the best. I should’ve told her that when I had the chance.

  But it’s too late now, and like my father always said, men who dwell on the past are doomed to be conquered by those who see only the future.

  I search the room.

  In a plastic bag, I find the black dress I bought Adeline for my thirty-fifth birthday. And I find her purse. Inside, there’s a pack of cigarettes, a tube of crimson lipstick, and a copy of the script I wrote for last night. I also find a piece of neon paper exhibiting what looks like a phone number.

  “Goodbye, Adeline,” I say, touching her face. And while I’m used to handling corpses, I shiver, as if the coldness of her body’s spreading into mine.

  And I see myself lying on the floor, in Adeline’s place.

  I force myself to laugh.

  But somehow, I don’t feel any better.

  *

  For a few moments, I sit at my desk, smelling the black dress, staring at the empty space where Adeline usually stands.

  Then I dial the number.

  One ring later, and a woman says, “Who is this?”

  “Frank Edge,” I say. “Adeline was my rag.”

  “Who’s Adeline?”

  “Maria. Maria Bittencourt. Did you know her?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m trying to find her killer.”

  The woman doesn’t reply.

  “Are you still there?” I say.

  “Yes,” she says.

  “Do you know who killed her?”

  “That’s an interesting question coming from a man like you. Why do you want to know?”

  “She was my rag.”

  “That’s not a good enough reason, Mr. Henderson.”

  So she knows my real name. “She was special to me.”

  “I find that hard to believe, but for now, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. We’ll continue this conversation in person, tonight at seven. I’ll send you the coordinates.”

  “I’m not meeting with you unless I choose the time and place.”

  “Then you’re not meeting with me.”

  The phone clicks.

  And a few minutes later, I receive the coordinates.

  Normally I wouldn’t entertain the idea of complying with a woman. Especially a woman as insolent as the one on the phone. But right now, I’m feeling anything but normal.

  So at seven o’clock, I’m standing in the middle of the forest, right outside the city, and I remember the hunting trips with my father. Every trip, he taught me new curse words, and we insulted the beasts together.

  “Hello, Frank,” a woman says, behind me.

  I clench my fist, because no woman’s ever called me by my first name.

  Three women approach. They’re all wearing turtlenecks and pants.

  “You’re late,” I say.

  The one in the middle hands her lantern to the prettiest girl, and says, “You’re lucky we came at all.”

  “Do you know who killed Adeline?”

  “Don’t call her that.”

  “She was my rag, and it was my right to change her name.”

  “Your laws are only illusions used to maintain your privilege.”

  “You’re a Nymph, aren’t you?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because you sound like one of them. And you wanted to meet in this forest. And your phone number was written on a neon piece of paper.”

  “I see your point, but I’m not a Nymph. And for your information, I don’t sound like one of them. They believe thinking and speaking about laws and politics obstructs the flow of transcendental knowledge.”

  “What are you then?”

  “My name’s Fen.”

  “I didn’t ask for your name.”

  “I’m not here to answer your questions, Frank.”

  And I can’t take this anymore, so I pull out my mag.

  But before I can even take aim, Fen grabs my weapon, and points the barrel at my crotch.

  I back away. “Wait. Wait a minute.”

  The pretty girl laughs.

  “This isn’t funn
y,” Fen says.

  “Sorry,” the other girl says.

  And probably due to the shock of the situation, my defenses weaken, and I almost cry.

  This isn’t the first time I’ve had a gun aimed at me, of course. But never by a woman.

  “Lie detector,” Fen says.

  The uglier girl takes out a small metal box and shines a red light in my eyes.

  Fen points my mag at my crotch. “Tell me the truth, and I’ll be merciful. Are you really looking for Maria’s killer?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  The pretty girl puts a rod in her mouth, which might be a cigarette holder.

  Then a dart pierces my chest.

  Collapsing, I say, “You fucked with the wrong…”

  And when I regain consciousness, everything’s spinning. There’s blood and women everywhere. They’re screaming at me.

  Soon, my mind clears, and I realize I’m handcuffed to a hook in the floor. I’m in a windowless room with canisters surrounding me on the floor, and photographs and monitors covering the walls. On one screen, I see a man slicing off a rag’s earlobe, over and over. I hear a rag crying, telling a man in a ski mask that the rope is too tight. I see cuts and bruises and bones bursting out of flesh. I see a severed head rolling down the stairs, and I hear a child laughing.

  “You look somewhat shocked, Frank,” Fen says, sitting on the other side of the room.

  “Of course I am,” I say. “I didn’t know so many men tortured their rags.”

  “Coming from the man who tortured Maria Bittencourt.”

  “I never tortured Maria.”

  “You don’t consider rape a form of torture?”

  “I never raped her.”

  “You forced her to have sex with you, under the threat of death.”

  “I cared for her. And I think she cared for me too.”

  Fen opens up a briefcase on her lap.

  “Could you turn off the monitors?” I say.

  “Yes,” Fen says. “But I won’t.”

  “I can’t hear myself think.”

  She walks over, carrying a piece of paper, and looks down on me. “This is the waiting list for our detonator-removal operation. About ten percent of women don’t survive the procedure, but most of the people I meet add their names to the list. Because they’d take any chance to obtain their freedom from men like you. Here’s Maria’s signature. She signed four years ago, and if she were still alive, she’d be about two months away from liberation. Her greatest desire was to never see you again, Frank. You made her life a living hell.”

  I feel dizzy, and I hear a rag begging for mercy. “Turn off the monitors. Please.”

  “No.”

  So I close my eyes, but the violence won’t disappear. I remember the one time I slapped Adeline. I don’t remember why.

  “Do you know who killed Adeline?” I say.

  “I told you not to call her that,” Fen says.

  “Do you know who killed Maria?”

  “No. Do you have any leads?”

  “No.”

  At this point, the sounds of cruelty stop.

  I open my eyes, and I find the monitors muted, and a gun in my face.

  “I want to believe in you, Frank,” Fen says. “But it’s easy for me to look at you and see the men in my past. They were all excellent liars, and I’m sure you are too. There’s a good chance you discovered Maria’s involvement with my organization, so you killed her, and pretended to search for her killer in order to spark my interest in you. You knew I’d bring you here. Who are you working for? Or is this some vigilante campaign?”

  “I wasn’t lying to you,” I say.

  “I wish I could believe that, but I can’t take the chance. I’m going to have to kill you, Frank.”

  “Wait! What about the lie detector? It must’ve shown you the truth.”

  “That wasn’t a lie detector. That was a box with a red light.” She cocks the pistol.

  “No!” And like a sissy, my game face crumbles, and I cry.

  Fen stares at me in the eyes for a long while. Then she holsters her weapon.

  “Thank you,” I say, without thinking. I bite my lip, hard.

  “You’re an egomaniacal psychopath, Frank,” Fen says. “But maybe, somehow, there’s still some hope for you.” She returns to her chair. “I understand your desire to avenge Maria’s death, but that’s not going to honor her memory, or satisfy her spirit. When I first met Maria, she was a very angry person. She hated you with a passion. But over the years, she worked hard to rise above her feelings of blame to achieve inner peace. What I’m getting at, Frank, is that Maria wouldn’t want you to kill for her. She’d want you to help other women like her to attain the freedom she couldn’t.”

  “And how exactly do I do that?”

  “There’s an underground research facility in the Smokestacks, and they test on women.” Fen shows me a photograph of a rag bound to a table, with burn marks all over her naked body. “With the necessary funds, my organization would be more than capable of infiltrating this facility, and liberating the captives.”

  This is when my tears stop, and my body aches with fury. If I had my gun, someone would be dead by now. “Game’s over, sweetheart. You can’t swindle a CEO.”

  “What are you talking about, Frank?”

  “You kidnap men and bring them into this torture chamber in order to exploit them out of their hard-earned cash.”

  “This isn’t a torture chamber. This is a cemetery and a space for healing. This room’s saved many lives over the years, including my own.”

  I snicker at the idea.

  Then Fen says, “Many of the women who join my organization are suicidal, and require years of emotional and spiritual therapy. One of the most important steps in the road to recovery is to get in touch with your anger. You can’t focus on this rage forever, of course, but you can’t suppress your feelings either. I created this space because the women in my organization often blame themselves for their experiences. But when they come in here, and see the urns of the dead, and witness the abuses inflicted on others, they’re more likely to connect with their inner fury. And for most, this helps them survive.”

  I snicker again. “You act like you’re helping these girls, but you’re only manipulating them, so they’ll join your little army.”

  “This isn’t an army.”

  “My point is, these rags don’t have any inner fury until you coerce them. You made Maria hate me by showing her these extreme cases.”

  “They may be extreme, but they’re not anomalies. This violence is a direct result of the Pyramid. And if you take part in that system, then you’re responsible for even the most extreme consequences.” She walks over, and hands me a photograph of Maria. “You didn’t kill her, Frank, but you helped maintain the environment that shaped her killer.”

  I gaze at Maria’s smiling face, and my memories of her rally together. “Even if I helped you, and you liberated the rags from that research facility, they’d just get more. Even if you blew up all the facilities in the world, they’d just make more.”

  “True, but this is part of a greater plan, Frank. Someday we’re going to dismantle the Pyramid.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “Not if enough people like you help us.”

  I place the photograph of Maria on the floor, face down. “You’re deluding yourself, Fen. You can’t change the entire world.”

  “You only say that because you don’t know what we’re capable of.”

  “I do believe you’re a special woman, and you’re destined to do great things. But you’re wasting your time toiling with a bunch of rags. Why don’t you come work for me? I can give you real power, and we can show the world what women are really capable of.”

  “You seem to be under a false impression about me.” She removes another paper from her briefcase. “This is the waiting list for our tattoo-removal operation. After my liberation, I had to wait two years before I was unbranded.”


  “You’re a rag?”

  “No. But that’s what they called me.”

  And I stare at her forehead, where the symbol used to be, and I feel dizzy again.

  Then Fen puts a rod in her mouth.

  And collapsing, I say, “I’m sorry.”

  *

  Maybe the drawers and file cabinets in this office are empty, and maybe I only play a detective in my fantasies. But as I sit here at my fake desk, staring at Maria’s photograph, I feel like Frank Edge. A man who always succumbs to a woman’s charms, no matter what his gut is telling him.

  And right now, my gut’s telling me not to press the button on my handheld and transfer a large portion of my fortunes to Fen’s account.

  Before I can make my decision, someone knocks on my door.

  An image of Fen flashes in my head.

  But no, it’s only Henry.

  “What are you doing here?” I say. “Don’t tell me the McCarthy deal fell through.”

  “No, nothing like that. I actually have a confession to make.”

  “Alright.”

  Henry sits on Maria’s chair, and smiles. “I’m the one who killed her.”

  “Who?”

  “Your rag. Me and Steven and a couple other guys at work planned the whole thing. We set up a series of clues that would eventually lead you to us, but I guess you’re a terrible detective.” He laughs.

  I grab Henry’s arms. “You killed Maria?”

  “Lighten up, Frank. It was a practical joke.”

  My fury intensifies, and I scratch Henry’s face.

  “What’s wrong with you, Frank?” Henry says, holding his nose.

  I pick up my handheld.

  And I can feel my defenses weakening. And if I don’t act now, I might actually flip the Pyramid upside down and give the rags the power that’s rightfully mine.

  So I take out my gun.

  “What are you doing?” Henry says.

  I fire, right at his forehead.

  And I’m at the top of the Pyramid, so the state won’t kill me for this.

  Instead, they’ll send me to the Sanitarium, and I’ll be purified of the feelings and ideological poisons surging inside me.

  So maybe I am crazy.

  But I’m still a man.

  The Haunted House

  Years ago, back when I could sleep, leviathans and other sea creatures infested my dreams. They never tried to eat me. But their mere presence in a lake or swimming pool or bathtub was always enough to ravage my psyche.